


The End of Time

by genteelrebel



Series: Adam and Joe [10]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canonical Character Death - Cassandra, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, Metaphysics, Minor Character Death, Multi, Mystery, Mysticism, Past Cancer, Past Canonical Character Death - Nick Wolfe, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 161,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: Dr. Millicent Alphonso has left everyone and everything she knew to begin her life again, living with Methos and Joe in their secluded island home.  While she knows in her heart it was the right decision, being a mortal in an Immortal world is full of challenges Milly never expected—challenges with a small c, thank goodness, at least so far.  But when Duncan MacLeod arrives on the island bearing a 14th century manuscript penned by the long-dead Immortal Kahvin, it quickly becomes obvious that Milly’s is not the only life that has been irrevocably altered.  The nature of Immortality itself is about to change for good…This is the final Adam and Joe story.





	1. Prolog

“This flame that burns inside of me  
I'm hearing secret harmonies  
It's a kind of magic  
The bell that rings inside your mind  
Is challenging the doors of time.”  
~Queen, “A Kind of Magic”

 

~ _ **The Bordeaux Region, France, February 2036**_ ~

So.  After four thousand, three hundred and twenty-two years, her life was going to end like this.  Sandra wanted to laugh out loud.

It is said that the human eye is incapable of seeing the entire world clearly.  The placement of the optic nerve creates a huge gap in the light receptors that line the back of each eyeball, which in practice means that there is a hole _right in the middle_ of each eye’s field of vision.  The reason most people never experience this is because the brain compensates.  Over the millennia, it has evolved the ability to fill in the missing pieces—usually using data less than a microsecond old, gathered as the eye darts hither and yon in barely perceptible movements that cover the blank places.  It does it so well, in fact, the most human beings go their entire lives without ever noticing that occasionally—just occasionally—the “guesses” their brain has made to fill in the picture are completely and absolutely wrong.

Sandra was rapidly beginning to believe that her psychic eyes were constructed along a similar principle.

It was, after all, the only theory that really made sense.  She was the second most powerful seer the world had ever known—and this was not hubris; Sandra actually knew it to be true.  It was a fact she was certain of, because the most powerful seer the world had ever known, who happened to be her lover, had told her so--and Cassie never, ever lied.  In her time, Sandra had predicted the fall of Troy, the sacking of Rome, the rise and defeat of Ahriman.    She’d foreseen the American terror attacks on September 11th and the start of the Chinese Civil War.  She’d even—once, just to settle a bet, and she’d donated her winnings to charity the next day—walked into a gas station and bought a lottery ticket worth a hundred thousand dollars.  Her ability to glimpse the future was almost unrivaled.

It was, therefore, one of the universe’s greatest ironies that she’d completely failed to see THIS coming.

They’d taken her in the parking garage at Charles De Gualle, spraying her in the face with Tritaxmatazine just as she’d been taking her luggage out of her rented car.  Even so, Sandra had managed to seriously wound at least six or seven before the drug had knocked her unconscious, a fact that had evidently left an impression.  Now that they’d brought her here—and “here” was the only name Sandra could give it, since they were outside in a clearing surrounded by non-descript looking trees—they were taking no chances.   There were a full dozen mortals dressed in black circled around her, and each one held a machine gun pointed at her heart; this, despite the fact that her hands were securely bound behind her back, and there was some kind of metallic shackle tightly locked around her feet.  Sandra was almost tempted to try making a run for it anyway, just to see how many of them would end up shooting each other in their haste to stop the big, scary Immortal from getting away.  It was obvious to her that whoever this group was, they were not professional assassins.  And they were so frightened of her that they would pee their pants if she so much as bared her teeth.

Still.  They did not have to be particularly professional, nor brave, to get the job done.  All they needed was one bright, shiny sword.

And they had one—a particularly nice 14th century Flemish arming sword, slender and light enough to be ideally suited to a lady’s hand.  And, indeed, a woman was bearing it, the thirteenth member of the little circle of death, her face like stone as she held it poised by the kneeling Sandra’s neck.  “Immortal Cassandra,” she pronounced, voice like a chill wind in the dark.  “Do you have any last words to say before you lose your head?  Any…” And here there at last there was a hint of some emotion warming the chill, a hint of what might have been eagerness.  “Any last prophecies to speak?”

Sandra didn’t answer.

Instead, she closed her eyes and shifted her attention inward.  There, woven into the vast tapestry of fate these children would never even glimpse, let alone understand, Sandra sought out one particular thread.  It was a bright, pulsing strand of light that, if Sandra had but known it, been tied to her body since her first earthly breath—but had only snapped taut in 1978, when the mere 58-eight-year-old child on the other end had first breathed hers.  Sandra whispered a word of power.  The thread became a corridor—and suddenly Sandra was with her beloved, touching her in every way except the physical.  They spent an eternal moment in ecstatic union, touching, reacquainting each other with every aspect of their ever-changing beings. Then Sandra pulled back a little, opening her eyes so Cassie could see through them with her, could look upon the circle and the sword.  * _It’s very odd,*_ Sandra Sent to Cassie through the bond, inner voice heavily laden with irony.  * _Somehow, when I pictured this moment, I always thought it would be_ him _holding the sword_.*

_*I know, beloved.*_

_*Or else_ him.  _One or the other.  Depending on exactly how cruel, in the final summation, this universe truly turned out to be.*_

 _*I know, beloved.*_ This time Sandra caught a hint of a sob behind Cassie’s Sending, a hysterical laugh mixed with tears.  It was the sound of a woman experiencing so many emotions—both joyous and painful—that they couldn’t help color their mind-bond a rainbow of brilliant hues, some so rare they were never seen amongst the earthly planes at all.  Sandra felt her own heart swell in response as Cassie’s gentle Sending once again enveloped her mind.  * _I know, my heart.  I know.*_

 _*This, though…*_ Sandra turned her head and looked around her, at the circle of tight, mask-like faces, at the fear betrayed by the tight, sweaty grips most of them had on their weapons.  The rifles were there only to insure her compliance, of course.  She’d been told, frankly, that if she refused to kneel, she would be shot and her head taken before she had a chance to revive.  An effective threat, if not a particularly creative one; these children seemed to know Sandra’s character disturbingly well.  Both the worst parts of that character—her pride—and the best—her passionate, soul-deep reverence for life—demanded that Sandra be awake to experience her death; to lose her head while unconscious was unthinkable.  She’d always planned to meet her death bravely, with dignity, savoring every precious second that was left—and yes, cursing her final Challenger with a thoroughness that would haunt him to the end of his miserable days.   To be robbed of the chance to experience her own death was a price Sandra would never be willing to pay. 

But she had never, ever suspected that her death would come from such a hand.  * _Mortals, Cassie,*_ she sent along her mind bond.  * _I’m going to be killed by mortals. On Holy Ground.*_

_*Yes, beloved. You are. In just a few moments, now.*_

_*I’m going to be lost.*_ For the first time Sandra’s mental “voice” broke, extreme anguish flowing through their bond.  * _Oh, Goddess, Cassie, I’m going to be lost.*_ The pain was unlike anything Sandra had ever experienced before.  Out in the world, her spine, which has been ramrod straight from the moment they’d first compelled her to her knees, suddenly sagged under the weight of it; she heard a vague murmur run through the watching circle, but could not bring herself to care. * _Like Thackery.  Like Darius.  Is this, then, why I never let myself foresee this moment?  Did some small part of me See it after all, and hide it from the rest of me, knowing it would be too much pain to bear?*_

 _*No.*_ Again, Cassie’s “voice” was colored with that strange, overwhelmed sob.  But this time, it was filled with far more laughter than tears, much more joy than sorrow.  * _No, my heart, my truest love, my other self.  Part of you *did* know this was coming, and force yourself to forget.  But not because of the pain.  Because…oh love.  Because some things are too beautiful, too exquisitely joyful, for even an Immortal mind to contain without shattering.  I could not tell you; it would have broken the bonds of what you are, and you had to walk to this place on your own feet first.  Come to this moment.  Breathe in this very breath.*_  And suddenly, all tinges of sorrow in Sandra’s partner’s mind fell away.  Nothing but joy filled the bond, a radiance the like of which Sandra had never felt.  * _But now—oh, now, my love, we are here!  We are *now*! And I can tell you.  At last, at last…*_

And she told her. 

The knowledge flowed along their bond like a river, filling Sandra up, transforming her utterly.  Out in the world, her poor body sagged a few more inches, but it was not from pain.  Instead it was the shock of someone whose entire universe has been rearranged, new knowledge illuminating—and changing—absolutely everything that had gone before.  No, she was not going to be lost!  Just as Darius had not been lost.  And neither had Myrtle, nor Grace, nor any of the others who had ever fallen to merely mortal hands.  Their deaths had all served a purpose.  And oh!  Oh!

What a glorious purpose it was! 

The beauty of knowing, of finally understanding, lit up Sandra’s being like a candle.  Around her, the murmur from the circle of watching mortals rose in pitch.  Sandra wondered what the knowledge had done to her face.  What were her captors seeing, that could be causing such a reaction?

But it didn’t really matter.  Cassie was right.  This knowledge was too big, too wonderful, for even an old, old Immortal mind like hers to fully contain.  Sandra felt herself shattering, becoming…something…else; in many ways the woman she had been was already dead.  The sword which would fall, in just a few heartbeats now, would merely be the final punctuation mark.  But for this one brief space of time, there was still enough of Sandra left to reach through the bond to her love, to see Cassie’s future with a clarity unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, and to grieve for it.  * _My darling, my beloved, my other self,*_ Sandra Sent regretfully.  * _I have no more fears for me; you have banished them completely.  But you…I am so sorry.  You will have to remain behind, through all that is to come.  You will be alone…*_

There was one more sob, made up of extreme, wonderful sweetness.  * _It only seems that way_ , Cassie Sent.  _I am…differently made, my beloved.  You already knew that.  You have glimpsed more of my differences than any that came before.  But now you will learn just how different I truly am.*_ Sandra felt the gentle sensations of a hand stroking her hair, a kiss on her lips, and another soft touch to her heart.  * _Death means little to me, beloved.  It means even less to me than it has to you.  When that sword finally falls, we will never be parted again.*_

“Yes…” Sandra was startled to realize that she’d spoken the word aloud.  Breathed it, rather; it was more ecstatic sigh than statement.  Still, it echoed through the cold night and made the nervous children more nervous still, wondering what on earth this condemned, bound woman had to sound so happy about.  Once again, Sandra fought the urge to laugh aloud. 

The woman in front of her, the one who bore the sword, frowned.  Sandra’s joyful expression was clearly unnerving her, and it made the woman want—badly--to bring the whole distasteful scene to a close. Sandra read her face contentedly, and closed her eyes; there were only a few moments left, then.  Best to make the most of them, through loving Cassie, through taking the last bits of herself that were left and talking to and teasing her as she’d always done.  Sandra let her lips quirk wryly.  * _Methos will be very, very surprised.*_

A snicker, made up of pure, girlish glee, rippled through the bond.  * _Won’t he, though?*_

 _*Oh, yes.*_ Sandra’s smirk broadened.  * _Duncan will be too, of course.*_

 _*Yes,*_ Cassie agreed. * _And Milly. I’m afraid it’s going to hit the poor girl completely out of the blue. But not Joe.*_ A sunny smile flowed down their bond.  * _He’s actually been halfway expecting something like it to happen for years.*_

 _*Hmmm. Yes. So he has.*_ Sandra pursed her lips thoughtfully.  She could see it now, the role Joe was to play in the great change that was coming.  Amazing, really, considering the opinion she’d formed of the mortal musician the first time they’d met.  She’d actually told Duncan tartly that he was an idiot, wasting his time on such a friend.  Such a short-sighted fool she’d been! 

But then, she could hardly have been anything else, could she? 

“Immortal Cassandra.”  The woman with the sword sounded decidedly edgy, now.  “Immortal Cassandra.  I repeat.  Do you have any last words to speak, any last prophecies to share?  If you do, speak now.  Before you lose the chance to speak forever.”

 _*A bit full of herself, isn’t she?*_ Cassie giggled.

 _*More than a bit,*_ Sandra Sent back. * _But she has a right to be, I suppose.  After all, she too has a role to play.*_ Above her, the woman swallowed hard and readjusted her grip on the sword.  Internally, Sandra rolled her eyes.  * _I think the thing that irritates me most is that she keeps calling me Cassandra.  It seems so strange, now.  It’s been so many years since I gave you half my name.*_

 _*No,*_ Cassie corrected her.  * _We always had the same name, beloved.  We have always been the same soul.  We just split up the name to make keeping track of the different bodies easier.*_ Out in the world, Sandra nodded in hearty agreement.  The woman, who had been about to swing, stopped in sudden hope.  * _Well, my other heart,*_ Cassie Sent.  * _Shall we give this woman that last word she so desperately craves?  And a bit of theater, too, to make sure she always remembers it?*_

_*Yes.*_

Sandra smiled, feeling ghostly hands tug at her wrists.  “I have just one final word,” she said aloud, using the same clear, ringing tone she’d once used to lead sacred rituals in Troy.  Her eyes glowed like a tiger’s in the dark.  “And it is my final prophecy as well.  Consider yourself blessed, ye poor mortals who hear it!  Consider yourself blessed, ye who hear the last soothsaying of the Immortal Cassandra!”

Another snicker flowed to her through the bond.  * _Was all that really necessary?*_

 _*Just setting the stage, beloved.  And now to bring down the curtain.*_ Sandra whispered a single word. 

The woman with the sword, who had been watching with painful, naked yearning in her eyes, stepped back as if struck.  Sandra nodded, smiled, and brought up her now free hands to cover the woman’s subtly trembling ones on the sword. 

And together with her beloved, for the first time in her long, long existence completely whole and at peace, Sandra pulled the sword down.

 

 


	2. The breeze at dawn

**_~La Casa de Methos y Joe, Somewhere in the Caribbean, February 2036~_ **

 “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby.  Don’t you know that I looooooove you?  In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby.  Don’t you know that I’ll aaaaalways be true?”

The music pulsed and danced, causing the pieces of the priceless 12th century chess set sitting on one of Methos’s many office tables to vibrate dangerously.  Methos paid it no attention.  He was much too busy dancing and pulsing himself—rocking in his chair as his hands roamed through the holographic computer interface in front of him, composing an e-mail here, copying and forwarding a file there.  As far as he was concerned, *really* good soundproofing was one of the best inventions of the last decade.  And now that he lived in a house that had it-- the American media mogul Methos had bought the Caribbean island from had been a music lover too, and had hardwired every single room with seriously powerful speakers and the soundproofing to match--Methos took advantage of the technology at every opportunity, cranking up the tunes in his personal office to levels he never would have dared to use during the first thirty-nine years of his marriage.  Joe loved music too, of course, but he was cursed with mortal ears.  The volumes Methos really craved might very well have left his husband with permanent hearing damage.  But now Methos could indulge himself completely, and he sang along at the top of his lungs as he worked, his voice almost entirely disappearing into the sweet, seventy-year-old notes of Iron Butterfly’s signature rock and roll.  “Oh, won’t you come with me-e-e-ee? Come take my hand…”

Joe, who had long ago programmed Minerva, the house computer, to automatically drop the volume in Methos’s office whenever anybody else entered unexpectedly, sometimes wondered aloud how Methos could get anything done with that racket in the background.  But Methos swore that the music actually helped him to concentrate more on his work.  Not that what he was doing this morning really qualified as work, though.  After more than a hundred years of surviving the daily grind as one kind of professional or another, Methos was once again A Gentleman of Leisure—a role that was suiting him surprisingly well.  The investments he’d begun cultivating in the late 1990’s with an eye towards financing Joe’s eventual retirement had paid off in a big way.  All Methos really had to do was keep an eye on them, and send a threatening message every now and then to the stockholders of his many dummy corporations, to keep things running smoothly. 

Today, for instance, he had a fairly short and easy list of tasks to accomplish.  All he had to do was review Quinge Millia’s energy investments in the east, send an official letter off to the head scientists at Sandy Toes Biotechnology Corporation to congratulate them on their latest interface breakthrough, and inform the balking board members of FutureVision, Inc. that yes, they would indeed continue to support interplanetary exploration, even if they could see no immediate return for their investment.  That done, all Methos had left was to take a quick look at the household budget and an even quicker look at a few smaller, more personal financial statements, and he was done for the day. 

He sang loudly as he called up the family bank accounts, noting with saddened resignation that Milly had once again failed to touch any of her monthly allowance.  Then he started reviewing the list of other trust funds he and Joe had set up anonymously for various good causes around the world.  A bright blinking red light next to one caught his eye. Methos frowned and looked at it closely.  For a few moments, Iron Butterfly had to sing on unaccompanied as the five thousand year old man stared blankly at the accounts.  Then, abruptly, Methos silenced the music altogether.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

***

“It was in the morning papers  
And the evening papers, too  
And I saw it on TV  
So I know it must be true.  
This ain’t no idle rumor  
They’ve got the cold hard facts  
At the lab they’ve checked it out  
On little mice and rats.  
Just in case you haven’t heard  
I’ll give you the bad news:  
Love’s been linked to the blues.”

David Olney’s magnificently gravelly voice filled the swimming pool, playing both under and over the water so Joe could hear it no matter how deeply he swam.  Not that Joe was really swimming right now.  He was floating on his back, looking at the blue, blue, blue Caribbean sky just visible through the transparent solar panels of the conservatory, and losing himself in happy thoughts of the past; he’d been lucky enough to get Olney to play Les Blues more than once in the old days.  Joe smiled to himself as he listened to the song now.  Yes, there would have been a time when he most definitely would have agreed with its message, that love was an inevitable cause of the blues.  But not anymore.  Nowadays, love brought him nothing but joy. 

And wasn’t that quite something to say?

The song wound to a close. Joe swam to the edge of the pool and effortlessly climbed the stairs to the decking, letting Minerva quickly dry him with gusts of warm air while he looked down fondly at his most recent pair of cybernetic legs.  Joe could still remember when Methos had brought Joe his first pair, in South Africa it was, when they’d been hiding out near Coffee Bay way back in 2022.  The prosthetics then had looked like so many pieces of delicate metallic lace covered in a shimmering gelatinous membrane, the wireless neural interface revolutionary and still largely untried.  Joe had known what they were at once, of course, as did practically every other amputee in the world who cared about the development of prosthetic technology.  He’d just never expected to see a pair in person.  At least, not so soon.  “Methos,” he’d said, awed.  “This…this is the very latest technology.  These aren’t available to the general public yet.  They haven’t even finished the final testing…”

“They’re available if you own the company, Joe.  And they just finished the final testing last week.  You will be the first person in the world to own a pair of his very own.”

“We own a biotechnology company?”

“More than one, actually.”  Methos had sat down at Joe’s side.  “I’ve been investing in prosthetic development for several decades now, fostering competition, hoping that someday there would be a big breakthrough.  And now it’s finally here.  Thanks to the new neural interface, you should be able to control these with your brain just as if you were born with them, and get feedback from them, too.  The sensors are pretty primitive yet—our test subjects all say that they can only pick up very blunt sensations, like very rough textures or extreme heat and cold.  But that will get better during the next few years, now that we’ve solved the basic problem, and…well, it’s a start.”  He nodded at the legs.  “Aren’t you going to try them on?”

Joe had just stared at him, his heart too full for words.  Finally, he’d said:  “You’ve been investing in prosthetic technology for decades?  For me?”  Methos had nodded.  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because it was a long shot at best.  I didn’t want to get your hopes up unless it actually paid off.  And it *has* been paying off, steadily.  We’ve made a lot of progress over the years, developing lighter alloys, improving function and fit.  But that wasn’t good enough.  I wanted you to feel the sand under your toes again, Joe.  And now I think you can.”

Joe’s eyes had misted over.  “When did you start?  After…after Ahriman?”

“Ah, no.”  Methos had looked mildly embarrassed.  “I started way before that.  In 1984.”

“But that was the year we first met!”  Again, Methos had nodded, looking more embarrassed still.  “You invested in biotech corporations for me then? Even after the way I treated you?”

“Well, I had a few million dollars I wasn’t using,” Methos said lightly.  “It seemed like a profitable area to speculate in at the time.”  He caught Joe’s expression, sighed.  “Joe, you have always been important to me.  I didn’t know for sure if giving those first students at MIT the funding they needed to continue their experiments once they graduated would ever pay off, but it seemed like a reasonable bet to make.  And even if it didn’t work out that way…scientific discovery takes time, I didn’t know if you’d still be alive to make use of whatever they developed…I figured that someday there would be other people like you who could.  I wanted to make you proud of me, Joe, even if we never saw each other again.  I figured that would do the trick.”  Joe’s tears had overflowed.  “Stop that.  It wasn’t all altruism, you know.  There has been a very nice return on that initial investment over the years, part of which is keeping us both in luxury today.  So will you wipe your eyes and try them on, already?  I want to know how they fit.”

So Joe had wiped his eyes and tried them on…and felt sand under his feet for the first time in more than half a century.  In the fourteen years since then, the sensor technology had continued to improve, so that Joe could now count the individual grains of sand under his heels if he wanted to.  He didn’t, most of the time, but it was nice to know that he could.  He could also swim, and run, and for the first time indulge his lover’s apparently millennial-old but never-before-mentioned foot fetish.  The first time Methos had made them both climax simply by sucking on Joe’s new toes Joe had yelped like a child, then collapsed into an exhausted heap, and then looked down at his oh-so-satisfied beloved with an exasperated grin.  “Altruism, my ass,” he’d said.  “Should’ve known there was something kinky in it for you…” And Methos had simply looked smug and grinned.

Learning that Methos had been channeling money into biotechnology research for more than forty years just so he could give Joe the gift of sandy beaches under his feet had startled Joe at the time.  But really, he shouldn’t have been all that surprised.  That was just the way that Methos had always treated him.  From insisting that the old Juniper Street Books had an elevator in it, to remodeling a whole series of non-disability friendly bathrooms in their various homes, to bullying the world’s top pharmacologists into designing a new cocktail of anti-cancer meds that would keep Joe in remission but not make him impotent—Methos had been taking care of Joe for years.  The result was that now, at the grand old age of 86, Joe was trimmer, healthier, and stronger of mind than ever—if wearing a body that was regrettably wrinkled of skin and short on hair.  Still, he was happier, too.  And now that Milly had joined them, paradise was more perfect than ever.

Joe smiled warmly.  God, but he loved that girl! 

He chuckled a little to himself as he wrapped a robe around his body and started heading for his music room. All right, he knew he really should think of Milly as a woman, not a girl.  But one of the advantages of being eighty-six was knowing that mere thirty-six year olds really were still children and being able to call them that, at least within the privacy of his own mind.  He looked at Milly now, and knew that she was just as confused and mixed up about life as he himself had been at that age.  It was going to take the girl another decade or two at least before she really had a handle on everything, knew what she wanted from her Great Earthly Adventure and figured out how to get it.  But that was all right.  Figure it out she doubtlessly would…and the truly wonderful thing was, Joe would be in her life to watch her do it.  He’d get to see it all, every inevitable misstep and all the hard-won triumphs, too.  And while he watched the woman, he was still able to see the small girl he’d originally taken to his heart so many years ago, still so clearly evident in Milly’s delicate hands and smile. 

Paradise, indeed.

It still seemed like such a miracle.  It had been only six short months since Minerva had quietly announced that the generic, untraceable, discount store phone they kept in the underground safe had started ringing.  Both Joe and Methos had been quite alarmed.  Only two people in the entire world knew that phone number.  And both of them had sworn on the pain of a very swift decapitation to use it only in cases of extreme emergency.  Joe had waited grimly while Methos retrieved the phone and returned the call.  He’d listened to Methos’s clipped, frighteningly monosyllabic half of the conversation in an agony of suspense, dreading to know just what the call portended.  At last Methos had put down the phone and faced him.  “Well,” he’d said without preamble.  “Duncan had a visitor today.”

“Who?”

“She told him her name was Dr. Alphonso.  Dr. Millicent Gabriella Carolita Dido Alphonso, to be exact.”

It had taken a few heartbeats for this to sink in.  Then…well, it was next to impossible to really describe the feeling that had swept over Joe.  It was a mix of joy and hope and terror and the sudden terrible, wonderful possibility that an old wrong could be corrected, a wrong he’d had no way of controlling but which he’d carried the burden of all the same.  Joe’s throat had grown dry even as his eyes had grown teary, and when he’d spoken, it was in a whisper.  “*Sprout*?”

“*Dr.* Sprout.”  Methos had tried to speak calmly, tried to keep his face sober and focused.  But Joe could hear the emotion just under the surface, the pride, the warmth.  He’d looked deeply into Methos’s eyes, and they’d shared a moment of deep, wordless communion which had told Joe exactly how much his beloved was feeling.  Then Methos had looked unhappily away.  “It might not really be her, Joe,” he’d said tiredly.  “Somebody could just have been going through ancient history, decided that Milly’s name might still have enough power to flush me out of hiding.  And even if it is her, it still isn’t safe to make contact.  You know that.  The only reason we’ve been as safe as we’ve been these last few months is because the world believes you’re dead.  And that I’ve disappeared back into the mists of the time.”

“I know.”  Joe’s voice had been gruff.  He knew exactly how much danger they were still in, how thin was the web of illusion that was currently screening him and Methos from the world.  He’d laid a hand on Methos’s shoulder, and Methos had taken it in his own, bringing it up to his mouth for a quick, sad kiss before staring distractedly out over the ocean visible through his study’s windows.  Joe had spoken softly.  “It’s dangerous,” he’d said.  “But you’re going to go see if it’s really her, anyway.  Aren’t you?”

The lovely hazel eyes had stared at him incredulously for a moment, and Joe had been forced to suppress a smile.  Even after all these years, there was still a part of Methos that got surprised and incensed whenever Joe suggested he might actually care for anything besides his own hide. But they both already knew what his answer was going to be.  “Yes,” Methos agreed.  “I am.”  And that was that.

Joe had wanted to go with Methos to Florida.  He’d wanted it badly, so badly that watching the solar plane take off from their private airstrip with just Methos and Paulo the Pilot inside had hurt more than just about anything else Joe had experienced within recent memory.  But he understood the reasons why he needed to stay behind.  Methos had a much better chance of slipping into the US unnoticed by their enemies on his own than the two of them together did.  And, should it come to it, a much better chance of fighting his way out again. 

It hadn’t come to it, though.  Less than forty-eight hours later, Methos had come home…and Milly had come with him, having learned all about Immortality that could reasonably be told in that amount of time.  Over the next week, Joe had made sure she’d learned considerably more.  Especially about all those things he knew that Methos couldn’t really grasp, although he tried: namely, what it was like to be a *mortal* living in the world of Immortality, to be a witness to that strange, brutal, wonderful realm without ever really being a part of it.  Milly had listened solemnly to all Joe had to say, asking several questions that just confirmed for Joe that she really had grown into the perceptive, sensitive woman he’d always known she would become…

And then, when the week was over, Milly had told them that she’d decided to stay on the island, wanted to throw in her lot with theirs for good.  A letter of resignation had been untraceably e-mailed to her university.  Several months after that, they’d helped her arrange to have her possessions packed up and her home prepared for sale by the employees of a real estate office in Las Cruces, an office which just happened to be owned by one of Methos’s many corporations.  It was hard to sell property in a college town during the school year, but the moment the move-in season began next fall Joe had no doubt that Milly’s little house would sell, and her last tie to her old life would be severed.  She’d be there with them forever, home at last.

They were a family again.

Joe smiled again as he reach his music room, closed the door, and settled into his favorite chair, the seat instantly conforming to his contours.  Yes, life was good, all right.  Oh, Joe knew that Milly was having a bit of a hard time getting used to her new circumstances--it was hard for someone who had worked as hard as Milly had all her life to suddenly find herself essentially retired, all her physical and financial needs taken care of, with nothing to do and nowhere to be.  But Joe was confident that she’d adjust.  Their need to stay hidden meant that travel was a bad idea, but it wasn’t like the old days, when living on an island like this would have meant total isolation from the world.  Thanks to the new 3D immersive technology, Milly could walk through almost every library in the world.  She could even still teach if she wanted, though of course she’d have to use an assumed name, and keep her online voice disguised and pick an avatar that didn’t resemble her real world form.  Joe himself still taught guitar that way, to a handful of extraordinarily talented young people around the world. The blues foundation he and Methos had set up in 2025 saw to it that the kids had the instruments and computer access they might not otherwise have been able to afford, and Joe met them once a week in cyberspace.  Before Milly’s arrival, those lessons had been the highlight of Joe’s days.  He was sure that, in time, Milly would come up with something to do that was just as satisfying.

And speaking of which…it was about time to get to work.  “Interface me, please, Minerva,” Joe told the house computer.  Instantly, headphones and an eye mask dropped from the ceiling, along with a pair of specialty gauntlets.  The gauntlets—a distant technological cousin to Joe’s new feet-- were by far the most important component of Joe’s online work, as they allowed him to play and even guide his student’s hands with incredible precision.  Joe donned them all and was instantly immersed in the computer-generated music room where he met his students. 

There was a red light blinking in the upper right hand corner of his vision. Joe waved his fingers at it, and the text of an e-mail suddenly displayed on the old-fashioned blackboard on the wall.  Susie May in Chicago wasn’t coming today; apparently, she had a bad cold.  There was a second e-mail from his next student, Anashe in South Africa, that bore a similar message.  Given that they were worded almost exactly the same way, and had been sent within seconds of each other, Joe suspected that it was really the love-bug, not a virus, that was responsible for the pair’s absence.  He’d introduced the two teenagers in cyberspace for the first time last week, since they were on a similar level and he’d thought playing together would be good experience.  But he’d been pretty sure he’d seen some sparks fly during that session as well as fingers…

Well.  Never mind.  They were both good kids, gifted and diligent 99% of the time; Joe was willing to let them play hooky just this once.  If they missed next week’s lessons, too, then he’d have something to say, but for now he was willing to let it slide.  He just shook his head, asked Minerva to bring up the rest of his correspondence, and settled in to work.

Like Methos, Joe had a perfectly adequate three dimensional workstation back in the real world.  But since he was already interfaced, it was just as easy to stay in the music room, letting text stream across the black board on one wall and using his gauntleted hands and computer generated “chalk” to scrawl any replies.  Not that there was really much to require his attention.  The Claudia Jardine Foundation was getting close to picking its next scholarship winner, but it would be a while yet before the field was narrowed down enough for Joe to really get involved in the selection.  Joe approved travelling expenses for two particularly promising candidates, and moved on.  He commented on plans for the Mike Paladini Fund’s latest anti-drug awareness campaign, and then it was time to move on to the correspondence in Joe’s personal inbox…which, these days, was so light that Joe hardly needed to check it out all.  That was one of the disadvantages of being dead, Joe mused as he ran his eye over the list of messages.  Only a handful of people had ever had this address to begin with, and now 90% of those believed he’d departed this mortal plane for good.  He did read a rather sad, clearly trying-to-be-upbeat-but-failing-miserably life update from Amanda.  Then he scanned a handful of scandalously sexually explicit messages from Methos (“Methos, why are you bothering to sext me when we live in the same house?” “Because we have to be a little bit more discrete now that we have third person living under our roof, Joe.  Besides, it’s fun.  Are you complaining?”  “No.  Good god, no.”) Finally, he came to the bottom of the list, which held a message from an address Joe hadn’t seen in his inbox in a very, very long time.  Breathlessly, he opened it, drinking in every word as it scrawled across the cyber blackboard.  After a moment he pushed back his face mask and blinked at his real-world music room, forehead sweating lightly.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

***

“That's great  
It starts with an earthquake  
Birds and snakes, an aeroplane  
And Lenny Bruce is not afraid…

It's the end of the world as we know it  
It's the end of the world as we know it  
It's the end of the world as we know it  
And I feel fine.”

Dr. Millicent Gabriella Carolita Dido Alphonso could dimly remember a discussion she’d overheard when she was six or so, on the day Jobey had finally given in, admitted that not only vinyl, but the cassette tape and the compact disk as well were truly dead, and bought his first iPod.  Alex had cradled Jobey’s shiny new 80GB iPod Classic tenderly in his hand, and wondered aloud about all the ways the little device’s popularity was going to change the world.  What would it mean to mankind, now that multiple centuries worth of musical genius could literally fit into the palm of one’s hand? In particular, Alex had wanted to know what was going to happen to the current generation of teenagers, who now had instant access to all the rebellious and protesting music of their parents. Would the young’s traditional disdain for the songs of their elders still hold?  Or, now that radio stations and music shops were essentially obsolete, and good music from every era could be accessed by everyone with just the click of a mouse, would that old generation gap finally disappear? 

Thirty years into the future, Milly thought it largely had.  Her students were just as likely to play Steppenwolf or Pink at their parties as any of the current bands.  Certainly Milly herself, when in need of comfort-tunes, tended to ask her computer to play music recorded long before her birth.  Today, for instance, the almost manically peppy strains of REM’s 1987 hit filled the laundry room, adding another layer of irony and to Milly’s already extremely ironic life.  She’d certainly experienced the End of the World as She Knew It, after all.  And while Milly didn’t regret her decision to abandon her old life for one moment…how could she, when it had brought Jobey and Alex back into her world?... even she had to admit that her new life was proving to be one heck of an adjustment.  Some days, it seemed like ‘feeling fine’ was a very distant goal. 

Days like today, for instance.

Milly sighed heavily as she drew the squishy-wet load of clothes into her wicker basket, then balanced the basket on her hip and carried it outside.  The house computer caused the song to follow her as she climbed the stairs to the kitchen roof gardens. Of course, in this ultra-modern house, Milly really didn’t have to do laundry at all.  Alex and Jobey’s island home was a wonder of technology, containing every housekeeping convenience Milly had ever heard of, and several that she hadn’t.  If she’d wanted, Milly could simply have thrown her clothes into the small, smart “cleaning closet” in her bedroom, where the house computer would thoroughly analyze the shape, fiber content, and soil level of the garments.  Then it would sort, wash, steam, dry, and return them to her, neatly hung or folded, less than an hour later. 

But there was still an old-fashioned laundry room tucked into one corner of the house, a remnant from the days when computer-aided cleaning hadn't been as reliable was it was now. Milly used it at every opportunity.  She’d gotten rather addicted to the crisp feel of hand washed sheets dried in the island sun, gently scented by the dozen English lavender plants Jobey had somehow coaxed into growing on the roof.  Besides, Milly had liked doing laundry ever since she was a kid, helping Jobey to wash his and Alex’s seeming endless collection of humorous t-shirts.  There was something about taking a pile of dirty clothes and turning them into clean ones that the younger Milly had loved—it really was a kind of magic, in its way.  And later on as a foster child, one who’d never been sure from one day to the next just where she was going to live or whose company she’d be forced to endure, doing her own laundry had given Milly a sense of control over her world that she’d badly needed.

One she needed still, apparently.

Milly frowned thoughtfully as she pinned a series of flowing, island-print dresses—the only things she ever seemed to wear, here—to the line.  She knew, from years of intensive state-sponsored mental therapy, that most children in foster care had some version of the classic orphan fantasy: namely, that their current life was just one horrible mistake, and somewhere they had a parent who was really a princess or a famous actor or a rock star, who would one day find them and sweep them away to a better life.  Milly had certainly created more than a few versions of her own.  But her childhood fantasies had mostly involved making some kind of great academic achievement--getting her second PhD, perhaps, or presenting a world-changing academic paper at a conference--and looking down from the podium to see Alex and Jobey smiling at her from the audience.   All the youthful Milly had ever really wanted was to be back in her beloved mentor’s lives.  She’d never expected them to rescue her from hers.  That, she had somehow known, was something she was going to have to do for herself.

So it was the most ironic of ironies, then, that of all the foster kids and orphans she’d known, Milly alone had found her “real parents”. Who were…well.  Not royalty or rock stars, certainly.  But special.  And who had indeed whisked her away to a better existence, life on an island paradise where she need do nothing but sunbathe and eat mangos for the rest of her days.  Alex had even set up a special checking account for her, with regular monthly deposits that ran into five figures.  In the handful of months since Milly had first arrived on the island, the account had already accumulated more money than she’d ever had in her life.  And early on, Jobey had quietly taken Milly aside and told her of their “other arrangements”.  In the event of his and Alex’s death—though, as Jobey admitted, death in their case was sometimes quite a slippery thing to define—but if something happened to both of them and Milly found herself on her own, all of the couple’s extensive assets would come to her.  In other words, Milly was an heiress now, with enough money already in the bank to more than cover any living expense or emergency she could reasonably imagine.  She was safe, now. She was set.

Of course, that security came at a price…

Jobey had asked her once, clearly angling, if there was “anything? Or maybe…anyone?” that Milly regretted leaving behind.  When she’d finally realized that Jobey had been oh-so-discretely asking about her love life, she’d had to hide a snort.  Milly had spent most of her life actively avoiding romantic relationships.  The scant handful of times she had given in had all ended in some kind of disaster.   She’d done better with non-sexual friendships, but even in the platonic realm, her life had been quite lonely of late—a predictable enough occurrence, when you’ve just moved across the country and are spending every free moment and dollar trying to track down a man you’d last glimpsed when you were seven. The handful of friendships that had survived Milly’s move to Las Cruces had fallen away during her year-long search for Duncan MacLeod, and she hadn’t found anything to replace them with.  So.  Aside from the good parts of teaching—which sometimes felt like they were few and far between, just like with any job—there was nothing Milly regretted leaving in Las Cruces.  Nothing at all.

That didn’t mean that being here was any *less* lonely, though.  At least not lately.

Milly pinned her final dress to the line and carried her empty basket to the stairs, shaking her head ruefully at herself as her laundry billowed in the breeze behind her like so many colorful flags.  Sometimes, she had to wonder just what she’d been thinking when she’d agreed to move in with the two men.  Just what had her naïve, still sometimes quite horrendously child-like, heart pictured their relationship to be like?  Had she really thought they’d just pick up where they left off?

If so, she’d been at least partially right.  It had taken her and Jobey less than thirty seconds to become comfortable with each other again, almost as if none of the intervening quarter century had happened.  As far as Jobey seemed to be concerned, it hadn’t.  He may have had some amazing new wonder feet, along with lot more wrinkles (“I know, I’ve turned into Yoda,” he’d told her that first day, completely unconcerned and unashamed.  “It’s okay, Sprout.  Methos thinks my wrinkles are sexy.”) But he was still Jobey, through and through.  He and Milly could easily fall into conversation about baseball or music or the latest developments in cartography, just like they used to. And, perhaps even more importantly, Milly could tell from every look and gentle, affectionate touch that Jobey loved her still.  Loved her unconditionally, in fact. With all the same warmth and pride in her character and accomplishments that she so clearly remembered from her childhood.

But Alex was proving to be a different story. 

No.  Not Alex.  Methos.  “Methos,” Milly said aloud, trying once again…and failing…to get used to the strange-sounding name as she walked through the conservatory and down a ridiculously long hall, finally coming to what had become “her” suite of rooms.  “Methos. *Methos*.”  There was a slight chime, and Minerva the computer, speaking through a loudspeaker embedded in the wall, calmly informed Milly that Methos was currently in his office and had requested not to be disturbed.  Would Milly like to record a voice message for him? 

Startled, Milly jumped, then realized that the computer must have picked up on the repetition and thought it was a request for a voice chat.   “No, thank you, Minerva,” she said politely.  And then, because she was still a scientist at heart who had to test out hypotheses, she paused outside her suite door and said “Jobey. Jobey. Jobey,” into the air.  A second later, Jobey’s voice came over the wall speaker.  “What is it, sweetheart?” he said.

“Um, nothing,” Milly answered, feeling a little foolish.  “I just said your name out loud a few times.  Minerva seemed to take it as a request to talk to you.”

“Oh, yes!” Jobey said.  “Methos did program her to respond that way.  It’s an emergency measure, since sometimes in the heat of the moment it’s just easier to shout out someone’s name three times than to use the more formal request.  It will work for any of the names you’ve ever called us by: Methos or Alex or Joe or Jobey.  Even Adam and Aaron and Joel, though you never really called us by any of those.  Oh, and any of those names followed by the word “help” will instantly get through to us, too.”

“But I didn’t get through instantly to Alex,” Milly protested, frowning.  “Minerva told me he’d asked not to be disturbed.”

“If Minerva had sensed an increased heart rate or any one of half a dozen other signs of stress in you, you would have.  Otherwise she reverts to her everyday communication protocol, which is to ask us if we want to take the call under ordinary circumstances, and not to interrupt at all if we’ve asked not to be disturbed.  But you can always override a do-not-disturb just be making a second request, honey.  Methos programmed Minerva so that you could always get through to both of us, no matter what else we might be doing.” And now Jobey sounded concerned.  “Was there something wrong?”

“No, no,” Milly rapidly assured, feeling—yes—even more foolish still.  You’d think there’d be a natural limit to the emotion, wouldn’t you?  “I just stumbled across the program by accident, and had to test it out.  You know me.”  She shrugged sheepishly.  “A perpetually inquiring mind, and all.”

“That’s my Sprout,” Jobey said warmly, and suddenly Milly felt a lot less foolish.  Jobey’s approval was a kind of magic, too.  “I guess we should apologize,” Jobey continued.  “I remember telling Methos when you first moved in that he needed to sit down with you and explain all the ins and outs of Minerva’s programming.  But you figured out so much on your own that I guess we both forgot.  Never mind, we’ll do it soon.  For now, I’m glad you called.  I was about to call you, anyway.” 

“Were you?” Milly smiled, finally pushing her way through the door into her suite.  “Hmmm.  Now that I think about it, shouldn’t you have been on ‘do not disturb’ mode too?  You were going to teach classes all morning, weren’t you?”

“I was.  But both Susie and Anashe called in sick, so I’ve just been going through some e-mail, instead.”  Jobey’s voice suddenly sounded apprehensive.  “I-uh—I got a message today that all three of us should talk about.  There isn’t any big hurry, though.    If Methos is still busy doing whatever-it-is-he’s-doing, it’ll be better if we wait.  Tell you what.  Want to meet us both in the kitchen for lunch, say around one?  We can talk all about it then.”

“Sounds good, Jobey.  See you then.” 

Milly dropped her basket on a table just inside her door, then walked through the sitting room into the room that had become her office.  It was a gorgeous, humongous, absolute miracle of a room: fully four times as large as the largest room in her old house, and with two outer walls that were made entirely of glass, which let in tons of sunshine and a heavenly view of the sea.  Minerva could control the opacity of the glass, so the sun didn’t shine too brightly into Milly’s eyes whenever she wanted to work.  For today, though, Milly bypassed her desk and just went to one of the long window seats instead, sinking down into it as she stared out thoughtfully at the blue, blue ocean.  Interesting.  She really hadn’t known before that Alex…Methos…had programmed Minerva to give her the right to interrupt him at any time.  Since one usually only allowed that level of freedom to one’s nearest and dearest—giving that permission to someone was the modern equivalent of the old gesture of giving someone a key to your apartment-- such a program spoke eloquently of her place here.  It seemed that Alex really did trust her, really did consider her to be a part of his and Jobey’s family.

Why, then, had the man completely ceased to act that way himself? 

It hadn’t been that way in the beginning.  Milly pulled her legs into her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees, unconsciously taking her old childhood thought-and-comfort pose as she tried to puzzle it through.  When Milly had first arrived on the island, she’d felt just as welcomed by Alex as she’d been by Jobey.  She’d been so eager to learn from him then, to hear all about his Immortality and the many lives he’d led. And Alex had never hesitated to answer any of her questions.   For instance, there had been the day when Alex had finally showed her the way he really looked.  They had been sitting together by the pool watching Jobey swim when Alex had admitted, slightly sheepishly, that the Dr. Porter Milly remembered had actually been very close to the end of his “natural life”—that time when he’d be forced to move away and start life over, since he couldn’t age the way mortals expected him to.  The last year or so that she’d known him, Alex had been slowly plucking back his hairline and artificially adding a touch of grey to his hair here and there.  But the real secret to looking older than his years had nothing to do with cosmetics.  It was, he said, mostly a matter of posture and mannerisms and language patterns.

When Milly had expressed her skepticism, he’d smiled and proven to her.  Right before her eyes, Alex had stopped being the dignified slightly-older-than-Milly he’d been ever since he first met her in Florida, and had suddenly become much, much younger.  In fact, he looked *so* young that Milly’s mouth had dropped open, and Alex had gotten sheepish all over again.  “Sorry,” he’d said apologetically.  “I don’t really know how old I was when I died for the first time.  My first people didn’t keep track of the passage of the years in the same way that we do now.  But I think I was probably 25 or 26 at the most.”

“At the most,” Milly had agreed dimly, having the familiar world-spinning-around-her feeling that had been her constant companion ever since they’d left Miami.  “My god, Alex.  You don’t just look younger than I do—you look young enough to be one of my TAs.  Maybe even an undergrad.”  He’d smiled broadly at that, a boyish expression that made him look younger still.  “No, don’t do that,” she’d said.  “Or the next thing you know, I’ll be asking you where you transferred in from.  And how long it’s been since you last got a care package from home.”

His lip had quirked.  “Quite a while,” he said, with the gift for humorous understatement that was 100% the Alex Milly remembered, even if the words were coming out of this youthful stranger’s mouth. “But I’m glad you brought up the subject, Pixie.  Of home, I mean.”  He’d gestured around him, at the house, the pool, the patio, the beach in the far distance.  “This is my home.  The one place on earth where—for the first time ever—Joe and I can live as exactly who and what we are, with no need to hide anything from anyone. I’ve been being forty-something ever since you got here, because I thought it would be easier for you.  But it’s a lot of work to keep up, and I’d really rather just relax and be myself.  Do you think there’s a chance you can get used to it?”

There was a lot wistfulness in that question, and an almost painful yearning in Alex's eyes.  It had vividly reminded Milly of all the times in her own life when she’d wanted to be herself and couldn’t, and how much that had hurt.  Her answer had been easy.  “I’ll do my best,” she’d said, before throwing him a saucy grin.  “Truth be told, it’s probably going to be much harder to get used to those awful island-print shirts of yours.”

Alex had smiled and lovingly stroked the lapels of his shirt, a particularly atrocious floral pattern printed in purple and neon green.  “I know it’s an especially good one when Joe physically winces the first time he sees it,” he’d said. 

And the conversation had moved on, Milly convinced that she’d get used to Alex’s youthful looks in no time, the same way she was getting used to every other strange thing in this strange new situation. Yes, it was undeniably odd to have the person she still secretly thought of as one of her fathers walking around looking almost too young to shave.  Especially when Milly’s own mirror showed her plainly that the annoying first grey hair she’d found on her thirtieth birthday was inviting more and more of its friends to the party all the time.  But Milly could cope with that.  Because, if she was honest?  Discovering that Alex was Immortal really hadn’t come as much of a shock.  The child Milly had been firmly convinced that her beloved Alex could hang the moon and then run barefoot around the earth’s equator in ten seconds flat for an encore.  Learning that he could heal from almost any wound and was, potentially, capable of living forever without aging a day, had only surprised her mind.  Never her heart. 

Even finding out about the Game hadn’t really startled her.  Again, though she hadn’t had adult words for it, the child Milly had always known that her Alex was involved in something bigger: something that held him slightly apart from the rest of the world, and something that created the deep shadows that sometimes flickered behind his eyes.  Learning that Alex must occasionally engage others like him in a brutal combat to the death until only one was left was horrifying—but it also, in a strange kind of way, made sense.  It was just the final handful of pieces to a puzzle she’d long since mostly put together.

But then came the day that Milly had stumbled into the gallery that overlooked the house’s huge indoor gymnasium, while Alex was practicing with his sword.

Wandering into the gallery had been an honest mistake.  According to Jobey, the room Alex now used as a gym had originally been a full-sized indoor basketball court.  Alex had removed the baskets and refinished the floors when they’d first moved in, but he’d left the gallery, where presumably Mr. Media Mogul had once sat to watch his guests play.  Since Milly had originally been looking for Jobey’s music room and had somehow gotten turned around, she probably would have wandered right back out again…if she hadn’t looked down and seen the sword in Alex’s hand.  But she had.  And shortly, she’d become so fascinated that she couldn’t pull herself away. 

She’d stood, silently watching from the shadows, while Alex’s bare feet whispered over the dark hardwood floor, his sword had weaving patterns as complex and intricate as the most elaborate Celtic knot.  It had seemed to Milly that every muscle, every step, and even every breath was under his exact, meticulous control--and the result was a dance of such splendid athleticism and beauty that Milly was stunned.  Oh, she’d seen Alex with a sword in his hand a few times as a child, when he’d lectured her on the history of what she now knew was the truly priceless collection of antique swords hanging on his study walls.  Once or twice she’d even glimpsed him doing exercises similar to this one, all alone within the dim, pre-dawn quiet of his and Jobey’s backyard.   But those shadowy, half remembered glimpses were nothing compared to what was now on display before her eyes.  Milly’s awe and wonder had grown with every graceful move.  It was just so *beautiful*.

Alex had come to an end.  He’d stopped, bowed gracefully to an imaginary opponent only he could see, and suddenly was just-a-guy once again.  A tired guy, his shoulders slumped, his muscles obviously weary.  But not yet finished for the day, as Milly was about to learn.  There were several dozen bamboo canes stacked against the far wall, each one about 5 feet tall and six inches in diameter. Milly had noticed them in the gymnasium before, and had wondered in a vague sort of way what they were for, although she hadn’t been curious enough to make a point of asking.  She watched now while Alex took five canes from the pile and started fitting them into some kind of stand.  It held the canes upright, with several feet of space in between each one.  When Alex finished, he took a step back, eyeing them critically.  Then, so suddenly it took Milly’s breath away, the sword was in his hand again—where had it gone?  And Alex started swinging at the canes, cutting each one in two. 

All at the same place, completely level and parallel with the ground.  About four feet above the floor.

Right about where one would reasonably expect the neck of a kneeling man to be.

Once upon a time, up late and bored, Milly had watched an old PBS documentary on sword-making in ancient Japan.  And she still remembered the slight thrill of horror she’d felt when the presenter had informed her that even today, the craftsmen who made katanas in the traditional way always tested their finished products on six-inch-thick bamboo canes, because a column of bamboo that size was “just the same thickness and density as a human neck”.  Now, watching Alex repeat the exercise over and over again, and knowing to the soles of her feet that this was NOT just a way to test his swords’ exceptional sharpness, Milly’s horror was increased a thousand fold.  And it continued to grow the longer the exercise went on.  She couldn’t decide which was worse: the frighteningly quiet sound the sword made slashing through the wood?  The sickening hollow “thud” that followed as the severed portion fell to the ground?  Or the calm, business-like, almost bored expression on Alex’s face?

What kind of man had practiced severing people’s necks so often that he’d gotten *bored* by the exercise?

By the time Alex had run through his fourth batch of canes, practicing a variety of angles and methods of approach, Milly was physically trembling.  Alex finished his final batch, cleaned up the pieces, and then moved on to practicing a series of mind-boggling gymnastic maneuvers.  He tumbled and flipped with so much strength and ease that Milly would have been enchanted, if she hadn’t already been so badly shaken.  And it was at that auspicious moment that Jobey arrived, having gotten tired enough of waiting for her to ask Minerva where she was.  “Lost, Sprout?” he said as he walked into the gallery.  “I know it’s easy to get turned around down here.  I thought I’d come get you, show you the way…”  Then he’d looked down and seen Alex.  “Oh, I see,” he’d said, attempting—and failing—to hide a broad smile.  “Not lost then, just distracted.  Not that I blame you.  I love watching Alex work out, too.  It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Below them, Alex had just landed after a particularly awe-inspiring flip, his feet touching down with so much lightness that the floorboards barely creaked.  “It’s—it’s not human,” Milly had said.

And had been startled to find Joe regarding her almost angrily, the first real look of disappointment she’d ever seen from him showing clearly in his eyes.  “No, Sprout,” he’d said severely.  “It’s human, all right.  Everything Methos does always is.  It’s just that he’s had so much more time to *be* human than anybody else that sometimes it gets confusing.  But he’s just as human as you and me.   You’re going to have to realize that, if you’re going to stay here.”

And he’d limped away, leaving Milly feeling soundly chastened…and more than a little bit heartbroken.  Because if she didn’t think of Alex as something otherworldly, if she had to think of him as “human, just like her”, then she had to think about just what kind of life it would take to turn her into him.  Into someone who had killed so many times, and would have to kill so many more, that practicing it was just part of the day’s routine.  For the first time, the complete, senseless tragedy that was the Immortal’s extremely poorly named ‘Game’ had become real to Milly, in a way that merely hearing about it could never have accomplished.  And her heart had bled…

She’d been quiet for a few days after that, processing, needing to sort out the horror she’d glimpsed in the gymnasium and somehow reconcile it with the laughing, always gently teasing man in the terrible floral shirts who sat across from her at breakfast every morning.  And while Milly hadn’t noticed at the time, looking back, she realized that this was when Alex’s new reserve toward her had begun.  Though just how he had known what was going through her head was a mystery.  Milly really didn’t think Jobey would have repeated her ill-considered comment to his mate, any more than he’d told Alex about the time she’d accidentally wet her pants in the park at age seven, or any of the other embarrassing childhood mix-ups and mistakes that had happened in his presence while Alex was elsewhere.  Jobey was very good that way. But somehow, Alex had seen or guessed enough to draw away from Milly, anyway.  And she’d had no idea what to say or do to begin bridging that gap. 

Then had come the breakfast, just after New Year’s, when Milly had casually asked both men for help in selling her home in Las Cruces.  Milly had thought it was a simple enough request.  It had been Alex, after all, who was keeping an eye on the place, seeing to it that a fancy alarm system was installed and that a Las Cruces security firm checked on the house in person several times a week.  It seemed ridiculous to keep paying for such an expensive service when Milly had already resigned her professorship and knew she was never going back.  The only reason she hadn’t called a Las Cruces realtor to put the house on the market herself was that she had no idea how to do so safely, without attracting undue attention to her new island home.  Since it fairly obvious that Jobey and Alex had found safe ways to accomplish such tasks in the outside world--even if Milly had yet to learn exactly what those ways were--asking the two men for their help had just seemed natural. 

But for some reason, Milly’s question had caused absolute silence to descend.  The two men had shared a long, poignant look over the table.  Finally, Alex had put down his napkin, pushed away his plate, and gotten to his feet.  “Finish your eggs and come with me to the library, Pixie,” he’d said.  “We need to have a little talk.”

It had turned out to be much more than just a little talk.

Milly had worried, when she first sat down in one of the library’s traditional, surprisingly comfortable old leather chairs, that she’d done something wrong.  That Alex was going to tell her to keep her house, since he and Jobey were, for some unknown reason, rescinding their invitation for her life-long tenancy.  She’d braced herself for that, when Alex quietly asked Minerva for total privacy and closed the door rather ominously behind them. 

But she’d been mistaken.  Alex hadn’t wanted to tell her what she’d done wrong at all.  He’d wanted to tell her what he’d done wrong, instead. 

All of it. 

More than five thousand years of accumulated barbarism and atrocities.  

Milly had listened, first not believing, then forced into horrible, terrible belief as Alex had spoken for what seemed like hours, telling her the full story of his incredibly brutal life.  About the two hundred years in ancient China when, despite being an untrustworthy barbarian, he’d earned a living as a very highly paid assassin, cutting down entire families of mortals with no more thought than most people gave to snuffing out a spider.  About the time in 2,459 BC, when he’d come across a commune of some thirty Immortals somehow miraculously managing to live together in peace in the mountains near what was now modern day Vietnam, and had ended up taking all their heads, every last one.  And, perhaps most chillingly, about the thousand years he’d spent in the company of three other Immortals as a mounted raider in the deserts of the Middle East, taking whatever he wanted from the surrounding nomadic tribes, and simply slaughtering or enslaving anyone who got in his way.   Alex spoke about this last in great detail, pulling no punches as he described the way he’d treated one slave in particular, a newly-born Immortal woman by the name of Cassandra.  By the time he’d made it clear that his crimes against her hadn’t just been violent, but violently sexual as well, Milly had been shaking quietly in her chair.  It had taken a great act of will to keep her voice both low and even.  “Alex.  Why are you telling me all this?”

He’d given her a small, painful smile.  “Three reasons.  One is pragmatic.  One is mildly altruistic.  The other is…merely selfish.  Which would you like first?” 

Her hands had tightened on the chair arms. “Start with the pragmatic one first.”

“All right,” Alex had agreed.  “The pragmatic reason is this.  If you are truly going to stay with me and Joe, be a part of our lives in all ways, than you are going to eventually meet up with one of the other members of our family who knows about the Horsemen. Duncan, Cassie, perhaps even Sandra herself.  And one of them is going to tell you the whole story—god knows, Duncan would probably be righteously incensed that I waited this long to bring it up, and would consider it his duty to tell you every gory detail himself.  Or else Duncan or one of the others will let something slip that will *lead* to the whole story.  And if that happens, the odds are good you’d feel even angrier and more betrayed than if I’d just told you the truth from the start.  So…”

“Wait just a moment please,” Milly had interrupted.  She’d raised her hand politely, falling back on the scholarly habits of a lifetime to give herself some emotional control.  “I’m sorry.  I need to clarify something.  Did you just say that Cassandra is now a part of your family?  The same Cassandra that you ra…that you just finished telling me about?”

“Ah.” Alex had looked mildly abashed.  “Sorry, I should have explained.  Cassandra goes by Sandra now.  Cassie is her mortal wife.  And yes.  Hard as it may be to believe, they are both my family now.”  He’d fluttered his hands apologetically.   “At least Sandra and Cassie both seem to think so, and Joe agrees.  So I sort of have to think so, too.”

“Right.” Milly had nodded.  “So Sandra must have… *forgiven* you?”

“’Forgive’ is probably far too strong a word,” Alex had answered solemnly.  “It’s not really something that can be forgiven, Milly.  Sadly, you have more reason than many to know that.  So do I, having been in Cassandra’s place, more than once.”  He’d looked Milly directly in the eyes, and a fresh frisson of shock had gone over her as the true meaning of *that* sunk in.  Alex had held her gaze levelly, unwavering, for several seconds, before finally sighing and dropping his eyes.  “But four thousand years is a long time,” he’d finished quietly.  “And I am not the same man I was then.  It took her a while, but I think Sandra eventually realized that.  I hope…I hope that someday, you can to.”

And there it was, again.  The same sort of naked pleading that had been in his eyes when he’d asked if she thought she could get used to him looking as young as he really did.  And Milly *had* gotten used to that.  She had, she had, she really had.  But this…oh, god.  This was a million times harder.  Milly had been quiet for a long time, moving thoughts and feelings around in her head, trying them this way and that way to see where they fit.  At last she’d said:  “You never once laid a hand on me sexually, while I was growing up.   And you could have.  God knows, you could have.  You certainly had plenty of opportunity.”

For a moment Alex had looked absolutely revolted.  Then, with an effort apparent even to her, he’d reined himself in.  “Ah, no, not precisely,” he’d said, and she had been unable to tell if he was trying for a kind of black humor or simply attempting to be honest.  “You probably don’t remember, but in those early days, your Abuela watched you like a hawk.  Most of the neighbors did, too.  Someone would have called Child Protective Services on me if I so much as looked at you in funny way.  And then, of course, there was Jobey.” Faint smile.  “He would have castrated me instantly.  Before he took my head.”

Milly had shuddered.  The whole conversation was opening doors in her head, doors she’d long since thought she’d closed forever--closed, and locked, and thrown away the key, before bricking the doors themselves into impassable oblivion.  But here they were again, apparently determined to reopen themselves.  And with each creak of the hinges, Milly was experiencing feelings that she’d long since thought she’d finished with, too.  Feelings of abject terror and helplessness, so strong that all she wanted to do was run away… 

But Milly was no longer a child.  She was a woman, strong enough to face not only the monster of her past, but also whatever monsters might confront her in the present.  And frightening as it was, there was one question she had to have an answer to.  Before she could decide if she was truly facing a monster, in this present moment, or not.  “Would you have?  If there had been opportunity, I mean.  Did you want to?”

She’d think later that Alex couldn’t have been more horrified if she’d pulled one of the swords off the library wall and stabbed him through the gut.  “No!” he’d exclaimed, looking so green and nauseous that Milly, witness to a thousand queasy student morning-afters, had actually moved back slightly, so the vomit wouldn’t hit her dress.  “Good god, no! How could you even think…”  She’d simply kept looking at him, her face a careful mask.  After a moment, he’d nodded tersely.  “Because, after what I’ve just told you, you have to think, and you have to ask,” he’d finished dully.  “But the answer is no, Milly.  I never even thought about it.  Not once.”

She’d kept her mask firmly in place.  “Have you ever? With any child?”

“I—“ His lips had worked helplessly for several seconds.  “It’s not quite that simple, Milly.” 

And Milly…faced with her own personal breaking point, the one thing she couldn’t accept or excuse or condone... had silently gotten to her feet.  She didn’t know where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there—she just knew she had to leave.  But Alex had reached for her hand.  “No, please,” he’d said desperately.  “Hear me out.  Give me two minutes to try to explain.  Than you can do…whatever you feel you have to do.” 

She’d nodded stiffly, every muscle in her body as tight and twisted as a metal cable.  “I said it isn’t that simple because…it really isn’t that simple,” he’d said earnestly, releasing her hand.  “Modern ideas about what makes a child and what makes an adult are just that….modern.  They *change*, Milly.  So do ideas about what kinds of sexual behavior are acceptable and who it’s acceptable to practice them with.  I’ve lived in several cultures where I was expected to marry girls only a few years older than you were when we met…with the full approval and approbation of the girl’s parents, her community, and the girl herself.  And I’ve lived in others where a good host was simply expected to provide his guests with a young slave to sleep with, the same way he provided them with a good meal and a bed.  It was considered amoral *not* to.  And a killing insult for the guest to say no.” 

Her voice had been very shaky.  “And you think those cultures were *right*?”

“No!” Alex had gotten up and started pacing in agitation, hands twisting in his hair.  “No.  Of course not.  But what’s considered ‘right’ changes, too.  For example, marrying girls at the age of ten actually made some kind of sense, in a time and place where the average age of menarche was eight and the average life span was barely twenty.  How else could people survive?”

She’d swallowed uncomfortably.  “And slavery?”

He’d stopped pacing.  “Slavery is always wrong,” he’d said quietly.  “I’ve *been* a slave, Milly.  I know.  There is no way any human being can ever truly be just to a human being he owns, no matter how benevolent a master he thinks he is.  And the cost in suffering and the losses to the world in terms of human creativity and ingenuity and invention are…unfathomable.”  His mouth had tightened.  “But it takes a culture of incredible wealth and wide-spread education to even begin to realize it.  And even then, the change from a slave economy to a free one takes centuries, and is usually only purchased with a great deal of blood.  The means to accomplish it are almost never in one man’s hands.  And they have never, ever been in mine.  Not once.  Not even when I truly tried.”

He’d searched her face and eyes for several moments, looking, she’d thought, for understanding.  Milly didn’t know if Alex had seen it or not.  But his shoulders had slumped.  “So, having come this far along on the honesty train, I’ll continue to be honest and tell you the truth,” he’d said dully.  “Yes.  I have, in the past, had what you would consider to be sex with what you would consider to be children.  I might add in my defense that in those places where turning down a slave’s favors was considered an insult worth killing over, more often than not it wouldn’t just have been me that risked being killed.  Quite often, the slave in question would have been put to death as well, for failing to please my eye.  I admit, there have been countless occasions in my past where I chose to go along to get along, rather than to die in pointless protest. But.”  A hint of iron had entered his voice.  “I am not a pedophile.  I am not now, nor have I ever, been sexually attracted to children simply *because* they are children.   And.”  His expression had softened.  “I never once considered such activities with you.  The thought honestly never even crossed my mind.”

Milly still didn’t know why she’d reacted to this the way she did.  She still hadn’t made up her mind whether she believed him, or not.  But—just as it had with the fact of his Immortality—her heart didn’t have to be made up.  It already knew.  And probably that was why her eyes had suddenly swum with tears.  “Why not?” she’d said, and there were a thousand other ‘why’ questions bundled in with it, unspoken.  *Why didn’t you think of it?  Why didn’t Jobey?  And why did Brian Smith?  Why does anyone ever choose, or choose not, to rape a child? When the opportunities are almost always at hand?*

Naturally, Alex had only answered the spoken one.  “Because those *were* modern times,” he’d said simply.  “Because touching you that way, in that time and in that place, would have hurt you beyond imagining.  And because…my god, Milly.  You were so bright.  Not just mentally, although you were that, of course—you do have some idea of how smart you are by now, don’t you?  And just how rare your particular brand of curiosity and intelligence really is?” Startled, Milly had nodded…although she’d come back to the question later, wondering just what Alex had meant.  She’d been good at school, yes, and she did her best by all the kids she taught, but neither the ability to study nor the ability to teach was particularly rare.  What did Alex see in her that she didn’t?  But Alex had gone on, and the moment was lost.  “But I’m not talking about your mind,” he’d said, shaking his head.  “I mean that *you* were bright, Milly.  So bright you *shone*.  So full of life and joy and wonder that you brought light wherever you went.  It would have killed me to be the one responsible for dimming that light in any way.  So…I did everything in my power not to.  The alternative was unthinkable.”  He sat back down on the chair in front of her and bent his head, clearly waiting for judgment.

She’d been quiet for a long, long time.  And when she did speak, even she was startled.  Because it wasn’t the grown up, successful, self-assured Milly who spoke.  It was the eleven-year-old, the one who’d spent the last twenty-five years wondering what she’d done to make her beloved mentors go away, and the last five months wondering if she could possibly measure up to their expectations.  “Do you still see it in me?  That light?”

And his head had snapped up, and his mouth had dropped open, incredulity plain.  “Oh, god, yes,” he’d said, without hesitation.  “Even more so, now.  Yes, Milly.  *Yes*.” 

And she had dissolved into near-hysterical sobbing, all her emotions having been twisted and tumbled so mercilessly that she really didn’t have an alternative.  Alex had gotten up, approaching her carefully.  Slowly, solemnly, giving her every possible chance to pull away, he’d brushed his lips over her hair.  Then he’d left the library.  But she’d learned later, from Jobey, that he hadn’t gone far.  He’d just gone out into the hall so he could quietly ask Minerva to summon his husband, then stayed, watching over Milly through the half-closed door, until Jobey had arrived.  At which point he finally did leave, to give them some privacy while Milly cried herself out.

Eventually, she had, Jobey’s still-strong arm around her shoulder.  “A lot to take in, isn’t it, Sprout,” he’d said sympathetically.

“You can say that again,” she’d answered, hiccupping in a most embarrassing way.  Jobey had handed her a handkerchief, a real, old fashioned cloth one just like she’d always remembered him carrying, and she’d dabbed at her eyes gratefully.  “God,” she’d said, half to herself.  “And to think I never even got around to asking Alex his *selfish* reason.  Or the mildly altruistic one, either.”

“His altruistic reason for what?  For telling you about his past, you mean?”  Milly had nodded.  Jobey had frowned.  “What reason did he give you, then?  Or did he?”

 “The pragmatic one,” she’d answered, laughing a little wildly.  “The gist of which was that I’d find out anyway, and it would be worse if came from someone else.  Or at least I *think* that’s what he said.   My brain was already pretty overloaded, to tell you the truth.”  She’d snorted.  “To be fair, I *did* ask him to start with the pragmatic reason first.  I almost wish I hadn’t.  I’m going to wonder about those other two reasons forever, now.”

“No, that’s not true,” Jobey had answered thoughtfully.  “All you have to do is *ask* him, Sprout. But if you want, I can try to answer.  Despite appearances to the contrary, I can’t actually read Methos’s mind, so I might get it a little wrong.  But I do know him well enough to get pretty close.”  She’d nodded, looking at Jobey curiously even as she continued dabbing at her nose.  Jobey had smiled.  “The altruistic one is easy:  you asked us this morning to help you put your home in Las Cruces for sale.  That’s a big step, Milly.  Not that sending in your resignation to UNM wasn’t, but…well, there are ways around such things, if you need them.  And Alex is a master of them all.  He’d find you a way to get your job back, if you really wanted it. Even now.”  She’d stared at him, startled. Joe had nodded solemnly before continuing.  “But selling your home isn’t something you can undo, not really.  Once it’s done, it’s next to impossible to buy it back.  So Alex thought that you needed to know the full story of his past before you cut that tie for good.  Just in case you no longer wanted to cut it, once you’d heard.”

“I—“ She’d opened her mouth and closed it again, not even beginning to know what to start making of this.  “I suppose that really is altruistic.  At least mildly.  What about the selfish reason, then?”

“That one’s a bit harder, Sprout.  I can only tell you what he told me, when I suggested that it might be…kinder…to leave you in ignorance.”  He’d looked sad.  “Especially given what you went through with Brian Smith.  I wasn’t serious, you understand; I thought you deserved a chance to make your own decision.  But sometimes, with Methos, you have to pretend to be the devil’s advocate, if you want him to stop turning things over and over and actually make up his mind.  And it was his decision to tell you, Sprout—it had to be.  I couldn’t make it for him.  It wasn’t my place.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Maybe it would be kinder not to, Joe.  But the truth is, I’ve gotten used to being known. To having people in my life who know the whole truth and still want to be in my life anyway.  It’s a luxury I never expected to have.  And it’s one I don’t think I can live without, not anymore.’” 

“He said that?”

“Yes, Sprout.  He did.” Jobey had looked even sadder.  “You see, I don’t think any of us…any mortal…can comprehend what it’s like to live in the kind of secrecy Methos has been forced to live in, for as long as he’s been forced to live in it.  To go for thousands of years at a time without anyone he loved even knowing he was Immortal at all, let alone *which* Immortal he was, and all the things he’s done.  It’s hard living like that, Milly.  And incredible as it sounds, this is the first time since…well, since the Horsemen, god help us all…that Methos has had so many people in his life all at once that he didn’t need to lie to.  And he’s discovered that he likes that.  Needs it, even.  The same way he needs oxygen to breath.”  Jobey had shrugged.  “That’s likely what he meant by being selfish, Sprout.  Because, after all, it might really have been better for you if you’d never found out.  It certainly would have been more comfortable.  So trading your peace of mind just so he could have one more person in his life that he doesn’t have to lie to *is* pretty damn selfish, when you look at it.” He’d looked at her earnestly.  “But you have to understand, Sprout, he never would have told you if that was the only reason he had.  The other two reasons were what tipped the balance.”

She’d considered this for some time, worrying the damp handkerchief around her fingers.  “You’ve known about all this for some time, I take it.”

“Yes, Sprout.  I’ve known about Methos’s true history for longer than you’ve been alive.”

“How did you cope with it?” 

He’d snorted.  “Not all that well, to tell you the truth,” he’d said.  “It took time, Sprout.  And a sad amount of Scotch.  And more luck and divine intervention than I really want to contemplate.  Sometimes it amazes me that neither of us ended up giving up before we figured out what we needed to do to stay together…”  He’d stopped himself, studying her thoughtfully.  “But you don’t really want to know how *I* coped with it, do you.  You want to know *how* I coped with it.  Or maybe, how I’m still coping with it, today.”   

“Yes.  That’s exactly what I want to know.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sprout.  I don’t think learning about what he’d done was ever what really bothered me.”  She’d stared at him.  Jobey had given her a sad little shrug.  “I understood war, you see.  I knew what being in Vietnam did to me, how it twisted my thinking so that even the most horrific acts seemed justified.  How much worse, then, to live for millennia where every day was a war?  If not a formal one, then at the very least, a battle to take the food and water you needed to survive from someone else?  And I’d been a Watcher for a good long time before I found out, too.  I’d seen how easy it was for an Immortal who had lived long enough to see everyone he loved die, over and over again, to start thinking of mortal humans as something…less.  To start thinking of them the way you and I might think of a dog or cat—loved, maybe, but not as something that’s going to last forever.  And from there, it’s a pretty short step from thinking of mortals as pets to thinking of them as something like cattle or sheep, instead.  Things that exist just to be slaughtered.  Things whose feelings and sufferings just don’t matter.”  He’d shaken his head.  “If you think about it, the amazing thing isn’t that Methos spent a couple of millennia treating mortals like sheep—it’s that he ever stopped.  And he did, Sprout.  He truly did.”

“Why?  What changed him?”

“You’ll have to ask him, honey.  I honestly don’t know for sure, although I have some theories.  Learning to read probably had a lot to do with it.  Seeing first hand that a mortal didn’t have to die with his body, that his thoughts and discoveries could live on…yes, I think that helped a lot.  Especially when he discovered that those written-down thoughts really weren’t all that different from his own.  That there wasn’t anything inherently inferior in a mortal brain, and that some of them were actually smarter than he was.  Discovering the Watchers probably helped, too.  It must have been something, realizing that there was a whole community of mortals who didn’t want to stone Immortals or drive them away, but just wanted to learn from them, instead.  Pretty life-changing, that.”  Jobey had looked very thoughtful.  “And I think part of it was just his own nature.  Methos never truly enjoyed causing pain, honey.  Not the way a real sadist, like, say, Caspian or Kronos, did.  Even when Methos was planning raids for the Horsemen, or figuring out how to poison a hundred people at a time when he was an assassin with the Dark Tong, the pleasure for him was more in the puzzle to be figured out, rather than in just hearing the screams.  Methos committed atrocities because he chose to ignore people’s suffering, Sprout.  Not because he really loved causing it.”  Jobey had shrugged.  “It’s a pretty fine line, I know.  But it’s there.”

She’d been quiet for a long while.  Then she’d said:  “And if I decide that line isn’t thick enough for me?  That I really can’t stay here, knowing this?”

“All you have to do is say so, Sprout.  Paulo the Pilot can be here to pick you up in less than three hours.  He’ll take you straight to Barbados. From there you can get a direct flight to Miami, and from there you can fly to Las Cruces, so you could be home in…oh, less than twenty-four hours, I think.  If I know Methos, he already has an emergency plan in place to get you your job back, just waiting to be put into action.  But even if he doesn’t, you’ll still have access to all the money in your account, plus a couple of extra million for good measure.  Even with the new US gift taxes, that should tide you over until you find something.”  Jobey had looked her over solemnly.  “By this time tomorrow, you can be home, Sprout.  The last five months will be nothing more than an interesting adventure.”

“And what will you do?”

“Be sad,” Jobey had answered simply.  “We’ll *miss* you, kiddo.  Having you here these last few months has been a gift bigger than anything you can imagine.  But if you have to go, we understand.”  She’d started sniffling afresh at that.  He’d patted her hands.  “Besides,” he’d added, almost as an afterthought, “We’ll be pretty busy for a while, too.  You know, selling this place, beginning a new life somewhere else.  Starting over always keeps us on our toes.”

“Sell this place? Start over???”

“Well, of course,” Jobey had answered.  “It has to be that way, Sprout.  I don’t *think* anyone will connect you to us—we wouldn’t take the chance of sending you back to your life in Las Cruces at all, if we did.  But just in case…it’s much safer if you can honestly say that you have no idea where we are.  And not just for us.  For you, as well.”

“You would do that for me?”  Milly had shaken her head, not quite able to comprehend this.  “Really?  Sell this island, risk your anonymity and quite possibly your lives to set up someplace new, and oh, by the way, just happen to throw a few extra million dollars into my bank account as well?  Just so I can go back to my old life?”

He’d look startled that she even had to ask.  “Well, yes.  Of course.”

“*Why?*”

He’d shaken his head at her, ever-so-fondly-exasperated.  “Because we *love* you, Sprout.  We want you to be happy.  We’d rather that you were happy here on this island with us.  But if you can’t be, we’ll do everything we can to see that it happens someplace else.”  He’d given her arm a quick squeeze, than gotten to his feet.  “I’ll leave you alone to do some thinking, now."

And so Milly had been left alone with her thoughts, feeling a bit like her entire world had just been yanked out from under her…again.  But also, in a strange way, as if part of it had just been put back.  She finally had a foundation under her, one that had been missing since she’d arrived. A solid platform from which to make her final choice.

The next morning, she’d repeated her request to have the two men help her put her house on the market.

And they had, and she had, and in the process Alex had even allowed Milly to glimpse some of the incredible web of multi-national finance that he used to weave a cloak of secrecy around all of his and Jobey’s monetary doings.  Milly had felt quite honored by the trust implicit in that, maybe even more honored than she’d been by their invitation to share their home in the first place.  And for a while it had seemed that sharing his past history had been good for Alex too, had actually cured some of the distance that had sprung up between them.  After all, Milly had no idea how she could more clearly say “I love you guys and I’m here to stay, no matter what, I’m all in,” than in doing what she had.  Alex had started laughing with her again, freely sharing whatever was on his mind.  And Milly had been glad, glad…

But it hadn’t lasted.  Two weeks ago—Milly remembered it clearly—she and Jobey had been playing in the conservatory pool, splashing each other as spiritedly as a couple of five-year-olds with a sugar-high.  Alex had been sitting on a lounge, watching and laughingly calling out battle advice, when suddenly something had changed.  Milly still had no idea just what.  Whatever it was, it had made Alex look at her sharply, as sharply as if she’d suddenly become a stranger.  After a few minutes he’d gotten up with a very distracted air and left, to be seen no more by Milly that day.

Which wouldn’t have been a problem.  What *was* a problem was that she hadn’t seen him the next day or even the day after that, and he’d even gone so far as to quit coming to breakfast with her and Jobey.   It was not uncommon, in this humongous mansion of a house, for Milly to go three or four days without seeing Alex at all.  When they did run into each other now, their conversations tended to be extremely polite and ordinary, about nothing more controversial… or consequential… than the weather.  And Milly had no idea what had gone wrong, or what she could do to change it.  Especially since every time she tried to bring the matter up, Alex either changed the subject, or abruptly found somewhere else he needed to be.

Milly sighed.  It was a shame, really, that the island’s weather was so universally—and boringly--sunny and calm.  It seemed like it was going to be getting a lot of discussion, from here on out.

Well, there was no sense moping.  With a decided, mind-clearing shake of her head, Milly stood up and walked over to her desk, asking Minerva to bring up the newsfeed from her favorite cartography journal.  All right, so it was extremely unlikely that she’d ever work in a university again.  But that didn’t mean Milly couldn’t work on a few private projects on her own, and it certainly didn’t mean that she had to lose touch with all the news in her field.  She smiled when the first thing she saw was an announcement of Dr. Jubal Lehrer’s retirement from the leadership of Plex Earth, complete with a lengthy account of both his professional and academic achievements. Milly had been lucky enough to know Old Inky Fingers well, and her memories were both admiring and fond.  She read the tribute, smile still lingering, until she reached the last paragraph, which announced Dr. Lehrer‘s successor.  Then, abruptly, Milly’s hands were a blur of motion.   A video clip appeared, floating in midair.  Milly waved her fingers under it, watched it play, and then sank back into her chair, smile banished for good.

“Oh, shit,” she said.


	3. has secrets to tell you.

“We need to talk.”

When Milly was a child in school, and two children happened to say the exact same thing at the very same instant, there had been a strict protocol to follow.  Whoever realized the coincidence first would shout out “Jinx!” The luckless second party would then be “jinxed”: forced, on pain of being boiled in oil or drowned in caterpillars or some other such horrible fate, to stay silent until the first person “un-jinxed” her, allowing her to speak once more.  Usually this permission was given after just a few minutes, or by the end of recess at the absolute latest.  Teachers had a lamentable way of completely disregarding the sanctity of the jinx, and a child who refused to answer direct questions in class was just asking to be kept for detention.  Since boiling in oil was nothing in comparison to detention at the hands of an irritate teacher, it was just understood that all jinxes ended at the classroom door.

Milly wasn’t quite sure what the rules were when three people—in this case, herself, Alex, and Jobey—all said the same thing at the same time.  And of course Milly was far too mature to do anything as silly as shout “Jinx!” aloud in such a company.  But for a moment, the kitchen was just as silent as if she had.  Then, mercifully, Jobey started chuckling.  “Oh, dear,” he said.  “Now I’m *really* worried.  You’re the one who always says nothing good ever follows that sentence, Methos.  What on earth made you use it now?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Alex answered dryly.  “But it isn’t the sort of ‘nothing good’ that ten minutes or an hour will make much of difference to.  I think. I hope.”    He cast curious glances at both Milly and Jobey.  “I’m more concerned about whatever it is that’s caused you two to both utter the dread phrase.  I take it that I’m not the only one who has had an eventful morning?”  Both Milly and Jobey shook their heads.  Alex sighed.  “Then the only question is: who goes first?  Pix?  Joe?”

Joe shrugged his shoulders.  “Mine can wait, too,” he said.  “It’s not end-of-the-world type important, anyway.  More of a sticky social sort of thing.  Sprout?”

“Ummm…” Caught off guard, for a moment Milly seriously considered yielding the floor back to Alex.  Then she frowned.  “I don’t think mine will make much of a difference if it waits ten minutes or an hour, either,” she said.  “But *it* is important, to all of us.  A possible hole in the island’s security.  If I may?” 

Alex nodded, and Jobey said “You have the floor, Sprout,” in what Milly took to be an encouraging way.  She stood up, smoothed down her dress, and waved her hand over the kitchen table.  “Minerva.  If you would bring up the last video I was watching in my office, please?  Volume at zero, please.”

Instantly the air where Milly had waved her hand was filled with a projection of three dimensional video, sound turned all the way down.  It was of two people standing on a podium at a news conference, a crowd of reporters taking photos and notes.  Milly pointed at the man on the podium.  “This,” she said, “is Dr. Jubal Lehrer, quite possibly the most talented cartographer of our time.  I studied under him as a postgrad at U Dub--“

Alex frowned.  “U dub? The University of Washington?”

“Uh, no.  The University of Wisconsin,” Milly corrected, suddenly realizing with a slight pinking of cheeks that it was quite possible that neither man knew where she’d gotten her master’s.  They still had so much to learn about her, and she about them.  “It was—still is-- the top school for geomantics in the US, largely thanks to Dr. Lehrer’s guidance.” She smiled fondly.    “The U was going to force him to retire when he turned eighty-five.  Instead, he left academia to become the new president of Plex Earth, which …and I’m really not overstating this…Dr. Lehrer totally revolutionized in less than three years.  He instituted the use of the new heuristic algorithms for data gathering, which…”  She caught the slight look of puzzlement on Alex’s face and the polite look of interest on Jobey’s, and caught herself.  “Sorry.  Cartographer talk.  Let’s just say he found a way to make Plex Earth’s automatic global mapping process much faster.  Which—since approximately 98% of the world now relies on those maps for everything from coordinating solarplane flights to finding the nearest place to get a cup of coffee—is saying quite a lot.  I worked directly under Dr. Lehrer at Plex for several years after I got my master’s, interning there part time while I wrote my doctoral thesis.  I’d probably still be working for him, if I hadn’t wanted so badly to teach…”

She trailed of again.  Both men’s expression had once again changed drastically, and this time Milly hadn’t the faintest idea why.  Particularly since Jobey had reached out to take Alex’s hand.  “And to think, I remember when she was drawing maps of our street with crayons on construction paper,” Alex said softly.

Milly blinked.  “I’m sorry?”

“It’s nothing, Sprout,” Jobey said, a small smile teasing his lips.  “Or rather, it’s everything—but it’s nothing to worry about.  It’s just you, that’s all.  We think we’ve gotten to know you.  Then suddenly you drop something like working directly under the Head of Plex Earth into the conversation.  You just have to give us a moment or two to be proud, that’s all.” He eyed Milly knowingly.  “I’m going to guess that the competition for that internship was a pretty stiff, and actually getting it was quite an honor.  Am I right?”

“Um…” Milly found herself getting quite flustered, without quite understanding why.  “Well, yes.  But I had an advantage over a lot of the other candidates.  Dr. Lehrer actually knew me, and knew what I was capable of.  He…” She stopped, because Jobey was looking at her more knowingly still, and for some reason that made the color rush to her cheeks.  “Anyway,” she said, trying to get back on track.  “Dr. Lehrer is now 92…

“A mere child…” Alex murmured. Jobey punched him lightly. 

Milly ignored them.  “And ready to retire for real,” she concluded.  “You’re looking at the press conference where he made the formal announcement.  And unfortunately for us…” She made another gesture that enlarged a portion of the projection, zooming on the business suit-clad woman standing next to Dr. Lehrer.   “*This* is his replacement.  Dr. Primrose Bard.”

She froze the frame.  Methos looked at the super tall, super trim, generally super-model-proportioned blonde standing next to Milly’s former mentor, and decided that Dr. Bard was attractive enough.  Not the lush, curvaceous beauty that their Milly was, but quite striking nonetheless.  Or at least Dr. Bard would have been, if the freeze-frame hadn’t caught her in an expression of smug self-contentment that was very off-putting, to say the least.  There was a smirk on her well-shaped lips that said she knew exactly what kind of honor was being conferred on her that day—and only had to wonder why it had taken so long.  Methos, seeing the expression of total loathing that was similarly disfiguring Milly’s pretty face, was forced to wonder—could the two ladies have been classroom rivals?  No.  Even if Methos mentally stripped away Dr. Bard’s tasteful makeup, she was at least fifteen years older than his Pixie, much too old to have been her classroom nemesis.  Then what?  “I take it you two have met?” he asked dryly.

“We…have a history.”  Milly’s mouth went tight.  “Let’s just say I’m not a fan.  But misguided as I think Plex’s choice for a new Head of Operations is, just on general principals, the truly worrying thing is this.”  She swept the video away and brought up a lengthy bit of text—a press release.  It appeared to have been published a day or so after the press conference and contained a lengthy interview with Dr. Bard, outlining her plans for the future.  Milly highlighted a certain paragraph and spread her hands, making the selected text pop out large enough to be read by all.  “She’s taken it upon herself to close up all the illegal blocks and pholes in Plex’s map system.”

Eloquent silence greeted her.  Methos waited patiently for his and Joe’s identical looks of total bafflement to reach Milly, silently counting in his mind.  One thousand one, two thousand—there.  Heh.   Impressive.  He would have bet on it taking at least 4 seconds.  In his experience, the more dedicated the academic, the more prevalent was his or her assumption that just EVERYONE in the world naturally understood their particular field’s jargon.  Then again, Milly had once said something about actually enjoying teaching Geography 101 as a TA, hadn’t she?  So she must have seen plenty of baffled looks long before now.  “Okay,” the girl said gamely.  “I see I’ve jumped ahead a bit.  You know that Plex Earth maintains an elaborate network of orbiting satellites, yes?  It’s these satellites’ jobs to visually document every square inch of the planet…”

Jobey interrupted.  “Hold it, Sprout,” he said.  “’Visually document’ translates to ‘take a picture of’ for us ordinary folk, right?”

Methos watched, hiding his own amusement, while Milly got a very strained look on her face.  “It’s….um… a little more complicated than that,” she said, and Methos suddenly wondered how many years of school it would take him to even scratch the surface of those complications.  He had a feeling that describing Plex’s modern mapping satellites as ‘taking pictures’ was roughly the equivalent of defining a complex logarithmic equation as essentially having the same meaning as two plus two.  But once again, the girl rallied bravely.  Methos privately cheered.  “But yes, that’s close enough for now, Jobey.  These satellites, ah, take a picture of every square inch of the surface of the earth at least four times a day, and even more often in the heavy population centers.  Once they do, the raw data is compressed and collated and translated into the three-dimensional mapping data pretty much every modern location application on earth uses.  This used to be a really laborious process, requiring huge amounts of computational time and lots of human input.  Nowadays, thanks to Dr. Lehrer, the process is largely automatic.  Which is why if someone tears down a building or builds a new road anywhere on the planet, the changes are reflected on the world’s maps within a matter of hours.  Usually, much faster.”

Joe nodded, showing his understanding.  Milly sighed.  “The problem, of course,” she said, “is that what makes for great convenience does NOT make for great privacy.  I’m sure you guys know about the Los Angeles Accord of 2023: the treaty that Plex signed with several of the world’s political powers, saying that they would never allow their satellites to be used in any way that allowed for the identification of individual human beings.  It would have been simple to do, after all.  Most of the world’s nations had already started developing programming that allowed them to recognize an individual’s facial features from security camera footage way back in the ‘00s.  And Plex’s satellites are sensitive enough to count individual grains of sand; I know, I was part of a team that used them to do exactly that when we trying to document the desertification of the Midwestern United States.  Using the satellites to find any particular person anywhere on the planet, assuming that person at least occasionally went outside and looked up at the sky, would not have been hard.”  Milly looked bleakly at her audience.  “And if you think that the satellites have never have been used that way in spite of the Accord…well.  You’re much more naïve than I thought.”

Joe’s face was suddenly statue-still.  Methos felt a cold chill go down his back.  But Milly was already continuing.  “The problem, of course, is that there are plenty of places people don’t want to be visually documented,” she said.  “Military bases, mostly.  Part of the L.A. Accord was that each of the world’s sovereign nations would be allowed so many thousands of miles of earth’s surface that would never be mapped.  Pointless, really, as everyone knows that most country’s real military arsenals and training facilities are now located deeply underground.  But there are still some places above ground that each country doesn’t want to be visually documented, even though everyone pretty much already knows exactly where they are.  The White House in the USA, for example.  Camp David.  Dozens more.  And then there are plenty of celebrities and quadrillionaires that would prefer their mansions never to be recorded, either.  If they have enough money…there’s a way.”

“And what way is that, Sprout?” Joe asked, and only Methos could have told you that to Joe, the inquiry wasn’t entirely academic.  “Sounds to me like the, um, visual documentation happens pretty much on automatic.”

“I’m glad you asked that, Jobey,” Milly answered.  “Because it goes right to the heart of our problem.  There are dozens of ways, but they fall into two major categories.  The first is something called a block.  Basically, you contract with Plex to never allow any visual record of your particular square inches of earth to be released to the public.  That’s what most of the celebrities do.  If you try to use any standard mapping application to give you a current image of, oh, Justin Beaver III’s house, you’ll just get a polite “image not available”, no matter how hard you try.  Other celebrities who are more concerned about privacy than security will allow an image of their homes to go out—but it’s one they’ve pre-approved, made sure doesn’t contain any embarrassing images of them sunbathing nude or having sex on the patio or whatever.  Either way, such service is expensive.  And it’s not foolproof.   Because the records *are* still being made.  And they are still accessible, to someone good enough to hack for them.”

“And what’s the second way?” Methos asked.  “Reprogram the satellites themselves, so that your particular inches of interest are never recorded at all?”

Milly nodded.  “Exactly.  That, of course, is much, much harder…and much more expensive.  Only world powers of significant size can afford what Plex charges for it.  The algorithms governing the exact orbits of the mapping satellites and the exact times at which they record the ground under them are very complex, filled with literally millions of redundancies …and they just happen to be Plex Earth’s most highly protected secret.  So programming the satellites to always avoid a particular square inch of ground is a complicated matter.  But it can and does happen.  Areas that have been programmed to always be so avoided are called ‘pholes’—it’s short for ‘privacy hole’. In theory, pholes can only be created by a small handful of Plex’s own programmers, after the request has undergone a lengthy ethical review process and been approved by at least eighty percent of the current Board.  In practice, however….”  She flushed.

*Hmmm*, Methos thought.  It was, he reflected suddenly, rather extraordinary how rarely he’d seen Milly look guilty as a child.  Young Pixie had been an astonishingly forthright girl, one more inclined to tell all and get his and Joe’s help with a sticky situation than to hide things from them.  But no human childhood is complete without at least a few moments of deliberate deception, and Methos had learned Milly’s particular ‘tells’ long before she turned seven.  He wasn’t sure what was more startling now: the fact that she still had them, or the fact that he could still recognize them on sight.  Or maybe most startling at all was the way they made him instantly drop into his rebuking-professor voice, one he hadn’t used in over two decades.  “Pixie,” he said severely.  “You happen to be part of that ‘small handful’ of people capable of creating these pholes on your own.  Aren’t you?”

Her flush deepened, but she didn’t try to deny it.  “I am,” she said.  “Or at least, I know how.  Every security system has weaknesses, particularly ones that have grown more and more complicated slowly over time, the way that Plex Earth’s did.  And some of those weaknesses are even deliberate, cheats and backdoors purposely created by the program’s originators.  Some of them date back to the days when the company was still just known as Google, not yet GooglePlex.  I know maybe three or four ways to secretly create a phole.  I’m sure there are several more ways I don’t know about.  But I never have done so, not by myself.  It’s…” She gestured helplessly at the ceiling.  “It’s unprofessional.  Bad practice.  I don’t expect you to believe it, but most cartographers at that level really do have a professional ethos.  Purposefully creating a phole is as bad as purposefully misspelling a city’s name on a map.  Or purposefully drawing a line of longitude askew.  It’s not just unethical, it’s actually almost…painful…to contemplate.   Like an art lover intentionally flicking a wad of chewing gum onto the face of the Mona Lisa.  Or maybe like Jobey, purposefully setting out to play a concert with one guitar string out of tune…”

Joe spoke kindly.  “But you have created a few, Sprout, haven’t you,” he said.  “Maybe not on your own.  But with help?”

She nodded.  “With Dr. Lehrer,” she said.  “He would have gotten fired if he’d ever said so aloud, but he firmly believed that such backdoors needed to remain open.  It created a system of checks and balances, kept the Board from becoming all-powerful.  And he used them himself, when the Board’s review process would have been too slow.  Do you remember the King County Slasher’s last victim, the one who actually got away alive?  When she was released from the hospital some idiot leaked her address, and there were so many other idiots hoping to catch a glimpse of her maimed face via satellite that the local servers almost crashed.  Dr. Lehrer created a temporary phole over her home so she could have a little peace.  And did similar things for other victims of the more sensational type of crimes.  It wasn’t ethical, not according to Plex’s code of ‘accuracy and accessibility above all.’  But…it was *right*.”

“Sprout,” Joe said gently, clearly hearing the defensive tone that had crept into Milly’s voice.  “We’re not going to question your mentor’s ethics.  Believe me.  Both of us have had plenty of experience with breaking the rules for the higher good—or at least, what seemed like the higher good to us at the time.  But what does any of this have to do with us?”

“Ah,” Milly said.  She waved her hand, instantly scrubbing the hated Dr. Bard out of existence.  “Minerva.  Would you please display Plex Earth images of the following location?”  She spoke a specific longitude and latitude.  And a second later Methos found himself looking at an aerial view of his very own island home.

“This,” Milly said, “is what you get if you search Plex for our island.  You pretty much have to use the exact longitude and latitude to find it, since as far as I can tell this place doesn’t actually *have* a name—not in any language, not on any map.  And of course one can’t find it by searching for either of you…since, as Alex explained to me recently, neither you nor Alex appear on the deed under any of your many names.  Officially, this island is owned by a corporation in Barbados that is owned by another corporation in the Canary Islands which is, surprise surprise, owned by yet another corporation in the States…and so and so forth, on and on ad infinitum.  Don’t worry, Alex, I didn’t verify this myself; I didn’t want anyone to get curious about why I was asking.  But if someone did ask, that’s what they’d find.  Right?”

“Right,” he confirmed.  “The deed to the island is buried under as many layers of corporate ownership as I could contrive.  A couple times a year I pay Amanda to subtly trace the chain and see if anybody has asked.  So far, no one has.”

“Yes.”  Milly nodded.  “The only person besides us who really knows this island is here at all—or that anyone is living on it—is Paulo the Pilot, who delivers our groceries once a week from Barbados.  Maybe a few of the maintenance people you’ve had to have Paulo fly in from time to time, too.  But all of them, thanks to Alex, think that you, Jobey, are a former 1990’s rap star.  One who got so sick of living in the fast lane during his admittedly profitable youth that all he wants now is to live out his days with his younger lover in peace…”

“*Rap* star?”  Jobey stared at Alex, aghast.  “You told Paulo the Pilot that I was a former *rapper*?  Me?”

Methos nodded, trying—and failing—to hide a particularly smart-alecky grin.  “An out-and-proud gay rapper, who used the stage name White Chocolate Sprinkle,” he said.  “Don’t look at me like that, Jobey.  It had to be something that sounded so, well, bad that no one would ever even think about asking you to perform.  But still believable.”

“Believable, my ass!  How are you going to explain it when Paulo tries to look up one of my so-called hits, and finds nothing?”

“Copyright negotiations,” Alex said smoothly.  “There’s millions of songs from that era that are still held privately, Jobey.  Paulo didn’t think anything of it.  Trust me.”

“But—“

“Gentleman?” Milly said pointedly, and Joe dropped the matter, although Methos could tell from his pout that it was going to take some very creative apology sex on his part to make up for Mr. Sprinkle in Joe’s mind.  *Poor me,* Methos thought, hiding a grin.  But Milly was once again pointing at the satellite image.  Methos forced himself to focus.  “Anyway,” Milly said.  “All I meant to say was this: there is very little reason for anyone to look up this island at all.  But if they did, this is what they’d see.”  She nodded at the image.  “I’ll give one thousand United States dollars to whoever tells me what’s wrong with this picture first.”

That got both men’s attention.  They both stared at the picture intently.  Methos even went closer and enlarged it with a wave of his hand, trying to see something—anything—that struck him as being out of the ordinary.  In the end, he was forced to sit back down, still shaking his head.  Joe said out loud what Methos was thinking.  “I don’t see anything, Sprout,” he said.  “It looks just like the island should look, doesn’t it?  I mean, it’s been a while since I flew over it, but I don’t see anything missing.   It’s got the airstrip and the house, all the pools and patios.  Even my music hut down at the beach.  You can see my tracks in the sand.” 

“It is pretty close to what you would see today,” Milly agreed.  “But there’s something missing, Jobey.  Something subtle…but something that should be there.”  She enlarged the picture still further, zooming in on the roof garden right above the kitchen…and Methos was startled to see that the resolution was good enough to count individual flowers on the lavender plants.  Christ.  Methos really hadn’t realized that Plex’s imaging technology had come that far, not that ignorance was any excuse.  How many times had he and Joe laid on the lounges in that garden, watching the sun go down over the sea?  Or floated on their backs in one of the pools, or stretched out on towels on the beach?  Forget about the mild embarrassment of being ‘visually documented’ having sex outside--how many times had his or Joe’s *face* been captured from above?  Milly was right.  Believing that the L.A. Accord was truly being obeyed was naive in the extreme... 

Methos began to think he knew where their clever little Pixie was going with all this, and he didn’t like it at all.  But then she gestured at the garden’s lower patio, and startled him afresh.  “Where,” Milly said quietly, “is my clothes line?”

Startled silence.  Milly waved her hand over the garden again, circling the place where…no question about it…the evidence of her singularly bizarre choice of domestic hobby should have been, and wasn’t.  “Four times a day, gentlemen,” she said.  “Every square inch of the earth is visually captured at least four times, each and every day.  And yet, for some reason my clothesline hasn’t been imaged, even though it’s been in place for several months, now.  I wouldn’t expect my *clothes* to be in every frame, not when I only have them hanging for a few hours at a time.  But at the very least, the line should show.  And it hasn’t.  Not during any of the weeks that I’ve been monitoring it.”

“But that’s not too surprising,” Jobey said.  “It must be one of those, what did you call it, blocks.  Alex?”

“Not one I paid for,” Methos said slowly.  “I’d never even heard of such a thing until today.  Although I now really, really wish I had.  But it’s possible Amanda might have arranged for one, without telling me.  Or maybe even the island’s former owner.”

“No,” Jobey said thoughtfully.  “It couldn’t have been him, Methos.  Not unless there’s a way to have the picture updated automatically once a year, or something.  Because that’s *our* garden—my lavender plants, and the hibiscus Amanda sent us for a house warming gift.  Sprout?”

“It’s extremely doubtful that a legal block would have survived the transfer of ownership,” Milly answered.  “Blocks are *expensive*, Jobey.  Especially for a property this big.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it cost a few million USD more than the island itself, each and every year.  It’s extremely unlikely someone would move and just forget to transfer the coverage to his new address.” She looked guiltily at Methos.  “I’m afraid I just assumed that you had set it up, Alex.  And, given your and Jobey’s need for absolutely secrecy, I also assumed that you had done it more or less…well, secretly.  Off the radar, so to speak.  Or I would have asked you about it months ago.”

“Downright illegally, you mean,” Alex said with a sigh.  “Your faith in my deviousness is touching, Pixie.  But I’m sorry to say that I’m not the evil mastermind behind this particular plot.”  He looked again at the picture of the garden, so deceptively peaceful and safe.  “The question is: who is?  Pix?  Do you know?”

“No,” Milly answered.  “And that’s what’s going to get us into trouble, I’m afraid.”  She waved the image away into nothingness and sat down in front of them.    “As I said, I just assumed you’d arranged the block, Alex.  And so up until this very morning, I didn’t think much about it.  There wasn’t a reason to, really.  Under Dr. Lehrer, Plex Earth had an unofficial policy of…well, of looking the other way when it came to illegal blocks and pholes.  It’s not that they wouldn’t have removed one—and prosecuted the people responsible for creating it-- if someone called their attention to it.  But they never really expended any manpower on searching for them.”  Milly’s face went sour.  “But under Dr. Bard, that’s going to change.  She’s determined to make a name for herself right out of the gate, and thinks this is the best way to achieve it.  She’s already put out a call to hire more than a thousand new forensic programmers, to help her sift through the code and discover the illegal blocks.  So when I read about it this morning, I started…well, ‘poking around’ is the right way to word it, I guess.  I used one of those old ‘backdoors’ I knew about to anonymously log into the Plex Earth servers, and started nosing into the code as subtly as I could.  I wanted to see just how our island’s block was set up, you see.  Which in turn might give me a feel for just how much trouble its presence was going to get us all into, when it was discovered.” 

Joe had that half-sad, half-proud little smile on his face again.  “The apple really doesn’t far fall from the tree, does it,” he murmured, causing Milly to once again look confused.  Methos, who knew perfectly well what his husband was referring to—the way Milly’s modern day Plex-hacking was remarkably similar to his own use of the Watcher Chronicles, back in the day--chose to ignore it utterly.  For heaven’s sake, he’d known the girl for less than five years as a child, after all.  He was responsible for neither the grownup Milly’s hacking skills, nor her moral ambiguity about using them.  “And what did you find when you finished this poking, Pix?”

“Two things,” Milly answered.  “First: our block definitely isn’t legal.  There’s no mention of it in any of the legitimate Plex records that I could find.  Second—whoever did create it was very, very good.  I couldn’t find the code responsible *anywhere*--and I should have.  At the very least, I should have been able to find the image file the block sends out stored somewhere on Plex’s servers.  But I couldn’t.  So…”  Milly sighed.  “So if Amanda did create it, she’d have to be—well, not just the best hacker I’ve ever seen, but intimately familiar with Plex’s systems as well.  Which is possible, of course.  You two would have a better feel for her skill level than me.  It’s also possible that Mr. Media Mogul was responsible for creating the block illegally after all; maybe he thought he’d rather pay a hacker once instead of paying Plex every year.”  She looked uncomfortable.   “But if neither of them was responsible…”

 “Then there’s a very, very good hacker somewhere else who is,” Methos finished grimly.   “Someone who wants our little island to remain as private as we do.  Which is a disturbing thought, to say the least.”  He drummed his fingers on the kitchen table.  “Joe.  I think a phone call to Amanda is in order.  We need to know if that hacker was her.”

Joe shook his head slowly.  “I’ll try, of course,” he said.  “But yesterday was the fifth anniversary of Nick’s death, Methos.  You know she always disappears for a while, whenever it comes around.  I wouldn’t expect to be able to contact her for a few more weeks at least.  And possibly even longer.”  

Methos nodded glumly.  “True,” he said.  “But it’s a shame.  I’d really like to know for sure.”  He drummed his fingers some more.  “Pixie?  Is there any way to know exactly when this block was first set up?” 

“No,” she said quietly.  “I couldn’t even find a timestamp on the blocker image file itself.  As Jobey says, it’s your plants in the garden, so we know it was taken after you two moved in…but before I came and started hanging laundry.  So we know it’s between twelve and six months old.  But of course, just because the image is that reason doesn’t mean the block is.  It could have been set up years ago.  There just isn’t any way to tell.”

“Hmmm,” Methos said.  “All right, so let me recap.  What you’re saying, Pix, is that *someone* out there cares enough about our home to make it literally drop off the map.  Since that is not a thing that is easy to accomplish in this day and age, it means this ‘someone’ has either the power or the money necessary to subvert the security of the world’s most powerful corporation. Which is not exactly a comforting prospect.  And just to add the final nutty topping to the sundae: Plex Earth now has a new boss in charge, one who is determined to root out every hint of illegal activity.  So even if our mysterious “someone” never shows his or her face, we’ll be screwed anyway, the moment this “block” we actually had nothing to do with creating is discovered.  Have I missed anything?”

Milly shook her head no, looking faintly sick.  “However, Methos continued.  “We know the block is at least six months old.  Since our ‘someone’ has apparently been content to let that much time go by without making so much as a single threatening move, I’m actually more worried about this Dr. Bard and her merry band of block-hunters.  Pix, how long before she finds us and sends a team of Plex’s best lawyers to demand how we hacked her servers?  Best and worse case scenario, please.”

“Best case…several years,” Milly answered immediately.   “As I said, whoever programmed this particular block was very, very good.  It’s going to take a lot of digging for anyone to find the discrepancy.  Worst case…” She shrugged.  “It’s still not going to happen right away.  Dr. Bard just announced that she was going to start hiring a team yesterday morning, and it takes a lot of time to make a project that big a reality.  First the programmers have to be found and hired.  Then, they have to pass Plex’s extensive background checks.  And finally, their efforts have to be coordinated.  I think we have a good year’s grace, at the very least.”

“What are the chances of the board cancelling the project before it ever gets off the ground?  Or of this Dr. Bard getting herself fired in the meantime?”

“Absolutely none.”  Both Jobey and Alex raised their eyebrows at Milly’s vehemence.  She flushed slightly, but did not back down.  “You don’t know Dr. Bard, gentlemen.  I do.  Trust me.  When she wants something, she gets it, and heaven help anyone who gets in her way.  Short of getting hit with a bus, Dr. Bard is going to make this project happen.  And even if she *did* get hit with a bus…”  Milly snorted rudely.  “Well.  Let’s just say I’d expect the bus to be hurt worse than Dr. Bard.  She’s that kind of person.”

Joe exchanged a quick glance with his beloved--*do you want to ask, or shall I?*  At the end of it, Methos made a little shooing, *after you* motion with his hands.  “Erm, Sprout,” Joe said carefully.  “Just what kind of history do you and this Doctor Bard have?”

“We...dated.  For a while.  Maybe two years, start to finish.”  Milly’s sour expression became positively acidic.  “It didn’t end well.”  She frowned, clearly trying to decipher both men’s suddenly strained expressions.  “But believe me, it’s my professional judgment that’s talking now, not my personal.  Primrose Bard is without question the most ruthless human being I’ve ever met.  You two just have to trust me on that.”

“Of course,” Methos said dazedly, and Joe chimed in with a quick “Absolutely, Sprout.”  Milly still seemed a trifle puzzled, but she let it go. 

So did Methos.  Truthfully, he had to wonder why he’d been so startled in the first place.  Milly was thirty-six years old, after all—she had to have more than one intimate relationship on her scorecard.  And the “ending badly” part certainly wasn’t a shocker, given her lack of ties to what Joe persisted in calling “the real world”.  Was the true source of his surprise the fact that Milly had been involved with a woman?  Well…yes.  But it shouldn’t have been.  Not at all.  “So it sounds like we have a little time, as far as Plex Earth is concerned, at least,” he said, trying to get the conversation back on its proper track.  “Doesn’t sound like it’s time to institute Emergency Procedure A.  Or not quite yet.”

“What’s Emergency Procedure A?” Milly asked. 

“It’s our old code for total bug out, Sprout,” Joe answered.  “New identities, new location, the whole ball of wax. We’ve done it so many time now that it’s beginning to feel a bit like falling off a log.”

“True,” Methos agreed.  “We always have large amounts of emergency cash and passports under new names, ready to go at all times.  And before you ask, yes, we have a couple of new passports ready for you too, Pix.  Which you can use to come with us, or go wherever else in the world you wish.  You get to decide, in the event that Procedure A ever becomes necessary.  Whether it’s necessary now…”  Methos rubbed his temples tiredly.  “I don’t know.  But I think it might be time for me to share my morning’s adventures.  Pixie?  May I have the floor?  Or is there something else you still need to discuss?”

“No,” Milly answered.  “We’ve already gone through all the bad news I have for the moment.  Unless you have any idea who our mysterious ‘someone’ might be.”

“No,” Methos answered gravely.  “But I have a terrible feeling that I may have just received a message from a similar source.  I was going through some of our more obscure family accounts this morning, and…”  He looked at Joe.  “Jeanette Montgomery is dead, Joe.  She passed away two days ago.  Peacefully, it seems.  Or at least as a peaceful as a death from fourth-stage breast cancer ever is.”

Joe made a soft “oh” sound that was both sad and understanding.  Milly seemed startled.  “Jeanette Montgomery?  The artist?”

Methos glanced at her, equally surprised.  “You know her work?”

“Just slightly.  She had an exhibition in Las Cruces a few years ago.  Some of the most stunning silver jewelry I’d ever seen.  Mixing classic Inuit designs with southwestern motifs…” Milly trailed off, looking puzzled.  “How do you know her, Alex?”

“I—“ 

Methos looked at Joe.  Joe reached out for him, touched his hand.  “Go ahead and tell her, Methos,” he said.  “You might as well.  Or would you rather I told her, instead?”

“No,” Methos said reluctantly.  “Tempting as your offer is.” His lips curled in plain self-mockery.  “You’d be tempted to soften my role in it too much.” 

“Whereas you are going to present your role in the worst light possible,“ Joe answered, with weary resignation.  “But it’s your story, Methos.  You have to tell it in your own way.  Just think a little bit about your audience first, okay?  And also remember that you weren’t the one who chose to…to harm Jeannette.  Kronos was.”

“I know.  But I didn’t exactly do anything to stop him either, Joe.  I—“  He stopped, seeing Milly’s face, which had gotten very pale at the mention of Kronos’s name.  “And we can continue this argument later,” he finished.  “For right now, you’re right.  I really should consider my audience.”  He turned to Milly.  “Pixie.  You already know who Kronos was, and what we were together in the distant past.  What you don’t know, yet, is that after millennia of successfully keeping out of his way, Kronos finally tracked me down in Seacouver in 1997.  Essentially, he wanted to resurrect the Horsemen and establish a brand new reign of terror over the earth, using a particularly nasty form of bioterrorism to bring about another Dark Age—with me at his side.  Needless to say, his plan didn’t exactly appeal.  I’d had enough of violence and killing to last me for several thousand lifetimes by that point.  And I’d found Joe by then, too, even if at that exact moment in time I was stupid enough to think he didn’t…”  He stopped, suddenly shy.  Joe, a flush of wetness coming to his own eyes, quietly nodded in an “it’s okay, go ahead,” kind of way. “Anyway,” Methos continued, trying hard to re-center himself.  “For reason much too complicated to go into now—although I’d like to state for the record that it was almost entirely Duncan MacLeod’s fault…”

“Methos!”  Joe exclaimed, shocked.  “That’s not true!”

“Well, that’s another thing we can argue over later,” Methos finished, a sad ghost of smile on his face.  “But yes, I’m digressing once again.  Sorry, Pixie.  This…isn’t easy for me to talk about, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”  She gave a swift, tight little nod, although she still looked very upset.  Methos folded his hands in his lap and composed himself yet again.  “Right.  For various reasons that may or may not have been Duncan’s fault, it was extremely dangerous for me to take a head at that time.  I tried to Challenge Kronos anyway.  And he…beat me utterly.  I couldn’t even get in one blow…”

Milly half stood up in her chair.  “Is Kronos still out there, then?” she asked, aghast.  “Is he one of the people you and Jobey are hiding from?”

“Oh, good heavens, no!”  Joe said quickly.  “No, Sprout, no.  Kronos died just a few months later, at Duncan’s hand.  Caspian and Silas died before him.  The Horsemen are long gone.”  Joe shot a worried glance at his partner.  “Methos is just trying to explain why he did what he did next. He couldn’t kill Kronos, himself.  He hoped that Duncan could…but he knew Duncan needed time before he could win a Challenge against such an old Immortal.  Duncan needed to prepare and…and…grow stronger.  So Methos told Kronos he’d join him and even help him find the other two Horsemen, just to get Kronos out of Seacouver.”

“Joe’s right,” Methos confirmed quietly.  “Duncan needed time.  And I had to get Kronos to Europe in order to buy it for him.  Which is where Jeanette Montgomery comes in.”  He swallowed hard and looked at the floor.  “She was the young woman who had the unfathomably bad luck to be working late at a travel agency in Calgary when Kronos and I walked in.  I was there merely to borrow her computer so we could get free airline tickets.    Kronos…chose to amuse himself with Jeannette while he waited.  She lived.  But that’s pretty much the only thing I can say.”  Methos shook his head, haunted momentarily by visions of the past, then resolutely resumed.    “Not too surprisingly, Jeanette sustained a number of disabling injuries, and she eventually developed one hell of a case of PTSD.  When it was all finally over and Kronos was laid to rest, one of the first things Joe and I ever did as a couple was to set up a trust fund for her.  Anonymously, of course.  Jeanette always thought she was simply the lucky recipient of private grant intended to encourage native Canadian artists—she was half Inuit, on her mother’s side.  We made some stipulation that she had to exhibit or sell at least two pieces a year in order to keep the grant, but otherwise she was free to create whatever she saw fit.  We paid for all her materials and a small monthly stipend to live on.  Not a luxurious amount by any means, but enough to be reasonably comfortable…”  He stopped, because Milly was staring at him, an odd expression on her face.  “What is it, Pixie?”

“You did that for her?”

Methos blinked.  “Well, it seemed like the best idea at the time,” he said, not really understanding the question.  “Our private investigator reported that Jeanette had only been working at the travel agency in order to pay her way through art school, and sent us enough pictures of her work for us to know she was talented.  I’ve known a lot of artists over the centuries, and I know the best gift you can give to any of them is some way to keep them fed and warm while they follow their vision unhindered.  Jeanette eventually became quite famous, I believe.”

“She did us proud,” Joe agreed.

But Milly was still shaking her head.  “You don’t see it, do you,” she said.  “You didn’t just ‘give her the means to follow her vision.’  You gave her an incentive to, as well.  That stipulation to sell two pieces a year was brilliant, Alex.  It meant she had to keep working, which just a straight-out gift of money would never have done.  So all of sudden she not only had the resources to keep on living after her tragedy, but a reason for living, too.  You have no idea how important that can…”

She stopped abruptly, flushing.  Methos, watching her expression carefully, wondered if she was suddenly remembering his ill-considered comment about ‘being in Cassandra’s place’, and if that was what was causing the flush.  Because, of course, he did know how important it could be.  He knew very, very well, indeed.  Then something else clearly occurred to her, and an entirely different expression came over her face.  “Wait a minute.”

“What is it, Sprout?”

“I think I just figured something out.”  Her dark eyes flashed angrily.  “For the most part, I didn’t have to worry about earning the money I needed to go to college.  The lawyers you left in charge of my trust fund did a pretty good job of investing the assets you left behind, and all four years of my bachelor’s degree were covered.  My master’s, too.  But after that I….well, I needed to take some time off, and by the time I was ready to return, tuition had skyrocketed.  There was quite a shortfall, and I would have needed to wait a few more years to start on my doctorate…if I hadn’t suddenly won a scholarship.  The ‘Millicent O’Brien Memorial Scholarship for Young Women of Tremendous Academic Distinction.’  Forty thousand dollars awarded specifically to women who wanted to pursue an advanced degree in cartographic science.  I remember thinking at the time that the name was one heck of a coincidence.” She arched her eyebrows at them suspiciously.  “You two wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”

Methos snorted.  He pointed at his husband.  “Don’t look at *me*, Pix.  That one was Joe’s idea.” 

“And you don’t need to look at me like that, either, Sprout,” Joe answered easily.  “You may have inspired us to set up that scholarship fund, true… you’re right, the Millicent was chosen to honor you.  The O’Brien was for my mom.  It was her maiden name.  But we weren’t responsible for you winning it.  There’s been a lot of recipients over the years.  We first set it up when you were still in elementary school.”

“You…” And now the child looked speechless again.  “You set up a scholarship fund and named it in my honor?  When I was still in *elementary school*?”

“Well, who else would we have named it for?  Even at age nine, you were one of the smartest scholars either of us had ever known, Sprout,” Jobey answered.  “We, ah, happened to come into some money that year we wanted to turn to good purpose. A scholarship seemed like the best way to accomplish that.  The idea that you might win it someday was definitely in the back of both our minds…but that’s all it was, an idea.  We didn’t rig things in your favor, beyond choosing the field.   If you happened to win it one year when you needed it, well, that’s one percent luck and ninety-nine percent your own hard work, Sprout.  Or on second thought, no, it was one hundred percent your hard work.  We stopped overseeing the award committee’s work just a few years after it was established.” A shadow crossed his eyes.  “Had to.  We were…otherwise engaged.”

“Busy running for our lives, you mean,” Methos interjected.  “Those were awful years, Pix.  I’m not saying that we wouldn’t have figured out a way to throw a few extra thousand your way if we’d known you needed it.  But…we didn’t.”  He looked awkwardly down at his knees.  “We were moving all over the world, trying to find someplace where we could be safe and still have some semblance of a normal life.  It didn’t work.  Six weeks, six months, one or twice as much six years…it didn’t matter.  Sooner or later, we’d be found, and have to move on again.   Until about a year ago I was at last able to build up the money and the layers of corporate fakery necessary to buy this place, and we took advantage of Joe’s last cancer treatments to fake Joe’s death and drop off the grid altogether.  Or at least, that’s what I thought we’d done.”  He looked grimly at Joe.  “Joe, Jeanette Montgomery passed away two days ago.  The account her stipend was paid out of should have been frozen then.  But this morning, there was some unexpected activity.”

“Someone stole the money that was was left?”

“No.  Someone decided to put some money *in*.  Minerva?  Access file ‘surprising endeavors’, please.  Password: I-can’t-believe-Joe-actually-turned-me-into-a-philanthropist-one-one-r-three.” 

An old-fashioned text-based spreadsheet appeared, floating in midair over the kitchen table. Methos scrolled down through it, highlighting about three dozen lines.  “This is the list of all the accounts Joe and I have set up to fund various charitable causes, over the last forty years or so.  Your and Mrs. Dawson’s scholarship fund is in here, Pixie.  So is the Claudia Jardine Foundation, and the Nick Wolfe Memorial Basketball Scholarship, and…well, quite a few more.  Naturally, I used multiple layers of shadowy identities to hide our connections with each of these accounts. In theory, tracing any of them back to either Joe or me should be impossible. But this morning I found this.”  He tapped on one of the lines, the one that read ‘Jeannette Montgomery Arts Grant’, and brought up a bank statement.  The logo at the top was for a small community credit union Milly had never heard of.  “Someone walked in person yesterday into the Mount Rainer Credit Community—that’s the bank in Washington State Jeannette’s stipend was paid from, Pix—and made 2 deposits.  Both in cash.”  Methos scrolled to the bottom of the page and highlighted two transactions in red.

Both Joe and Milly craned forward to look at it.  “$2.17,” Joe read out.  “And $19.97. That’s strange. Methos, even if you added both deposits together, that’s next to nothing in American dollars these days.  You couldn’t even take a date out for coffee for that.  Could someone have made a mistake?”

“That’s what I thought,” Methos answered.  “It didn’t make any sense to me either, Joe.  The amounts are so small that my auditing program probably wouldn’t have flagged them at all, if it hadn’t known that the account should be receiving no activity at all.  But, as I said, the money was deposited in person, and mistakes can still be made.  Surely, I thought, some kid walked into the bank with his lawn-mowing money, and some idiot clerk deposited the cash into the wrong account.  But then…well.  After a moment, those numbers started looking familiar to me.”  With a complicated series of gestures, he copied the numbers, pulled them a foot or so away from the rest of the statement, enlarged them and sat them side by side. 2171997.

Joe went very, very still.

“I am fundamentally paranoid by nature,” Methos said softly.  “As you both already know.  The moment I realized that those numbers might have a more…personal….meaning, I ran a search through all of our other accounts.  And I found that those same two amounts had been deposited, at roughly the same time, into two of our other accounts.”  He pulled up the original spreadsheet, marking two of the accounts.  “One was deposited in Canadian dollars in a bank in Calgary.  And another in euros in Paris.  It took me a little while to find them, because they become quite different amounts when you translate them into American dollars, which by default, all of my accounting programs do.  But if you look at them in the currency they were originally deposited in—the numbers are the same.  Two-seventeen.  And nineteen-ninety-seven.”

Joe still hadn’t moved.  Milly looked back and forth between him and Joe inquiringly.  “Okay,” she said.  “Clearly I’m missing something.  I can see that the two numbers together make a date…February 17th, 1997.  But what does it mean to you?”

When Joe spoke, his voice sounded old and creaky.  “It’s the day Kronos and Silas died,” he said.  “The day the Horseman were defeated forever.”

“Yes.” Methos waved the numbers away.  “So I am forced to conclude that yet another mysterious ‘someone’---one who knows far more about my history and my financial dealings than I’d like—is attempting to get my attention.  Who?  Why?  Is it the same someone who created our phole?  I have no idea.  But I’d say that the mission was accomplished.  Which begs the question,” Methos finished, eyes coming to rest on Joe, “of just what *your* morning’s bad news was, Joe.  Are we about to be invaded by rogue Watchers?  Space aliens?”

“Um, no, none of the above,” Joe answered.  “Like I said, my news wasn’t particularly scary or world shattering.  Just tricky.”  He shrugged his shoulders expressively.  “I got an e-mail from Mac.  He wants to come for a visit.”

***

Milly had rarely seen her two mentors truly disagree.  During her childhood, the two men had been so mysteriously in sync with each other that—with only one or two notable exceptions—arguments had never seemed necessary.  And the same had been even truer, if possible, since she’d moved in with them as an adult. 

But one never quite loses one’s childhood instinct for knowing when two grownups are about to go into a pitched battle.  And so today, when Alex snapped a clipped “No. Absolutely.  Not.” and Jobey’s jawline went rigid before he asked Milly if she would mind giving them a minute alone, Milly easily interpreted the polite request as the command it really was.  She skedaddled with all the alacrity of a seven-year-old getting out of the line of fire, disappearing into the kitchen and closing the door behind her. The soundproofing between the two rooms was good enough that she couldn’t make out words…just the heated rise and fall of masculine voices.  But those voice were very heated, Milly thought.  And she thought she heard much more rise than fall…

About fifteen minutes later, Alex slammed in through the kitchen door and began opening and closing cupboards with much more force than was strictly necessary.  “Trail mix, trail mix, trail mix,” he muttered under his breath.  “Come now, we must have some somewhere.  Or at the very least, some good old-fashioned peanuts and raisins.  I don’t mind mixing my own.”

“Middle island.  Left bank of drawers.  Second drawer from the top,” Milly said automatically. 

Alex stopped in mid-rummage to stare at her.  “Sorry,” Milly said with an apologetic shrug.  “It’s the cartographer’s curse—I have to know where everything is.  I’m the same way about my closet, believe it or not.  Besides, I’ve been helping Jobey put away Paulo’s weekly grocery delivery ever since I first moved in.  You’ll find the trail mix toward the back of drawer, right behind the dried mango strips.  I don’t know how fresh it is, though.  You might be better off making some from scratch.”

Alex opened the drawer she indicated, pulled out a bag, and sniffed the contents cautiously.  “I think it will do,” he said.  “Now I’m going to look for some beef jerky, too.  But *please* don’t tell me where it is, Pixie.  Childish as it may seem, rummaging irritably through bins and slamming cupboard doors is exactly what I need, right now.”

“Oh.  Right.  Of course.  I understand.”  Milly held her tongue while Alex did just that, looking in half a dozen of the wrong cupboards before finally opening the one she already knew was right.  It seemed to work, though.  By the time he’d found the jerky and had set it out on the counter with a few bottles of water and a handful of protein bars, Alex appeared much calmer.  He took an apple out of the refrigerator and used his foot to nudge the door closed with only a minimal thud.  Which made Milly feel confident enough to say, “That looks like travel food.”

“Bright girl, Pix.  Full marks for both observation and deduction.  That’s exactly what it is.”

“Does that mean you’re going somewhere?”

“Yes.”  Alex washed the apple in one of the sinks—the kitchen had half a dozen, plus a few counters that could be converted into extra sinks when necessary.  He dispensed an expanding plant-fiber towel and wrapped it around the fruit, making a sour face.  “Apparently, I’m going to go collect Duncan MacLeod from New York.  He’s going to be staying with us for a few weeks.”

Milly felt a cold chill.  And also a faint flush of…something…that she had to classify as embarrassment, as completely irrational and childish as that was.  She banished the second feeling in favor of concentrating on the first.  “Is that wise?”  Milly asked.  “Given our mysterious ‘someone’ situations?  Bringing anyone new to the island right now seems like a very bad idea, Alex.  Especially someone you have such a history with.  I mean, let’s be honest.  Duncan MacLeod isn’t all that difficult a person to track down.  He’s how *I* found you, after all.  And believe me…if I could do it, anyone can.  Don’t you think our ‘someones’ might lying in wait for you to get in contact with him?”

“Full marks again, Pixie.  That’s exactly what I said,” Alex answered.  “But Joe has other ideas.  Apparently, Duncan is facing some sort of situation of his own, one sensitive enough that it can’t be discussed or even mentioned via e-mail, and instead needs to be hashed out in person.  Joe thinks his situation and our situations may be related.  He even thinks Mac might be in danger where he is.  And so, given that Joe’s protective instincts are about twice as formidable as your average mother bear’s, not to mention the fact that he *misses* Duncan terribly…”  Alex put down the apple with a sigh.  “We compromised.  I’m not sending Duncan the directions he needs to come here on his own—I don’t trust him to know the exact location of our bat cave just yet.   But I will go and get him, and use every sneaky, underhanded, paranoid trick I can think of to make sure we aren’t followed.  I’ll probably even insist on tying a blindfold over Duncan’s eyes during the last flight here.  I’m sure he’ll treat me to one of his famous looks of withering scorn when I do, but…”

“Alex.”  Alex snapped out of whatever plotting and planning he was doing and refocused back on her, eyebrow raised inquiringly.  “Even so,” Milly said.  “Even with every single precaution you know how to take. It really is a bad idea, isn’t it?  Bringing him here?”

“It’s…” Methos thought for a minute.  “It’s not a brilliant one, Pixie, no.  As you said, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is very easy to find.  If *I* was trying to find me…the first thing I’d do is stake him out and wait for me to get in contact.  But. That said, there are a few good reasons for bringing him here, too.”  He shrugged helplessly.  “If our two ‘situations’ really are related—and that seems likely, if someone is invoking the memory of the Horsemen’s death--I’d like to know that sooner, rather than later.  Much as I like to make fun of Duncan’s intellectual powers, sometimes four brains really are better than three.  And two sword arms, if necessary, are certainly better than one.  Besides.  I’d rather bring Duncan here for any necessary councils of war than take Joe to him.  We’re better protected here than almost any place else on earth—this island has defenses your average comic book arch-villain would be jealous of.  Nobody can approach us by sea or air without us knowing far, far in advance.  And we have many different choices for how to respond, should that happen.  A few of which are quite extraordinarily lethal.”

He saw Milly’s rapidly whitening face and gave her a small, reassuring smile.  “And now I’m really starting to scare you,” he said.  “I’m sorry, Pix.  Planning for the worst case scenario is to me what solving Sudoku puzzles is to normal human beings.  But don’t take me too seriously--I honestly doubt our future holds anything quite so dramatic.  So if you think my doomsday planning is why I’ve been abusing our poor kitchen fittings this afternoon, you can relax.  It isn’t.  My actual reasons for not wanting Duncan here are far more personal than safety-related.”  He shook his head wearily.  “Our relationship has never been…easy.”

It was the most he’d said to her, all in one go and without Jobey being present, for weeks.  Milly sat down cautiously on a chair next to him.  “You…ah, the two of you seemed to get along well enough the one time I saw you together before,” she offered, trying to keep her voice light and probably not succeeding in the slightest.  “In Las Cruces.  When I was a child.”

He groaned.  “Oh, god,” he said.  “Yes, I know. Thanksgiving, wasn’t it?  And almost thirty years ago, now.”  He shook his head ruefully.  “Should have known that you’d still remember.”

Hmmm.  How should she handle this?  Casually, Milly decided.  Easily.  As if it didn’t matter at all. “Well, it did make something of an impression on me,” she said lightly.

Alex nodded.  “Of course it did,” he said.  “Because you caught me and Duncan kissing in the back yard.” 

“Er--”  Milly could feel her cheeks heating.  “Well, yes.”

“And because you thought I was using Duncan to be unfaithful to Joe.” 

“Um.”  Drat.   No question about it, her cheeks were absolutely flaming now.  “Yes.  I suppose that’s correct, too.”

“Thought so.”  Alex nodded, regarding her with hooded, unwavering eyes. “Go ahead, Pix.  Ask the next question.  I know you want to.”

“Uh…”  For a second, Milly heartily wished the floor would open up and swallow her.  But it didn’t stop her from asking the next question.  Even if she really, really wasn’t convinced that she wanted to know.  “Were you?  Using him to cheat on Jobey?”

“Not then.”

She couldn’t believe they were actually having this conversation.  “Ever?”

“Once.  Very long ago.  Much to my infinite regret.”  Alex pulled an old-fashioned canvas knapsack out of another cupboard and began packing his collection of foodstuffs into it.  “And yes, Pixie, of course Joe knows.  He has for longer than you’ve been alive.  And there were….extenuating circumstances in operation at the time, ones I have no intention of discussing with you, now or ever, so please don’t ask me to.  Suffice it to say that they were extenuating enough that Joe was eventually able to forgive me and put the whole damn mess behind us.  Duncan, on the other hand…”  Alex sighed.  “Duncan has spent the last forty years swinging back and forth between hating my very existence and reluctantly admitting that I might be the best friend he’s ever had.   It’s exhausting, trying to keep up.  And I’m not sure which part of the spectrum he’s currently tied to, although…given what happened in Miami…I can make an educated guess.” He tossed in the fiber-wrapped apple into the knapsack with a decided “thump.”  “But.  Joe loves the damn man, thinks of him as the son he never had, and has genuinely regretted this last year when they’ve been forced to stay out of touch.   And I love Joe.  And I am…barely, but truly…able to concede that if ‘someone’ really is after all three of us, we’re far better off acting as a team.  So I am going to go trotting off to New York to retrieve Duncan, in as safe and subtle a manner as I can possibly contrive.  I will even attempt to be what Joe persists in calling ‘civilized’ and polite as I do so.”  Alex cinched the bag closed with savage firmness.  “That doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

“Um.”  Milly floundered around helplessly for a few moments, trying to think of something to say.  “He didn’t act as though he hated your existence when I saw him in New York,” she offered at last.

Methos blinked.  “Well, that’s something,” he said.  “I keep forgetting that you’ve seen him much more recently than either Joe or I. Hmmm.”  Milly attempted to nod knowingly, although in reality she felt completely out of her depth.  Alex started to laugh.  “Poor Pixie,” he said, chucking her affectionately under the chin.  “Dropped into almost half a century of Immortal melodrama without so much as a life jacket.  You look as confused as you did at age seven, when Joe was trying desperately to explain why your priest got so incensed about two gay men picking you up from Sunday School.  I wish I could tell you what Joe did then: that it’s grown up stuff, and you should just ignore it until you get older.  But since you *are* grown up…”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Yes, well.”  He appeared to be hiding a smile.  “Even so, I’m afraid the best advice I can give you is pretty much the same.  Ignore it, Pix.  The inevitable up and downs inherent in a relationship with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod really isn’t something you should be wasting your energy on.  Especially when you have other things to concern you, much closer to home.”  He sobered.  “I’m worried about this mysterious block of ours, Pix.  There could be a perfectly harmless explanation for it, of course.  But until we find it I’m going to *stay* worried.”

“So will I.”

“Is there anything more you can do to find out who created it?  Without leaving footprints ‘someone’ could follow back to us?”

“I—“ Milly thought furiously.  “Maybe.  I know of one or two things I haven’t tried yet.  It will take time, though.  I will have to tread very, very lightly.  And hacking isn’t really my calling, Alex.  It’s not even a hobby.  Just something I can do if I have to.”  She shrugged.  “It would be so much easier if I could just call up one of my old friends still working at Plex, and get them to go through the records for me.  But since I can’t…”

“Well, see what you can do short of that,” Alex answered.  “You’ll have some time.  I don’t think it will be possible for me to retrieve Duncan safely in anything less than three days, more likely four or five, and neither you nor Joe should worry if it takes us more than a week.  I’ll keep in touch via one of the burner phones.  But in the meantime…” Alex regarded her seriously.  “Joe knows all of this island’s emergency protocols, including all the defense procedures and the emergency escape routes.  Get him to go over them with you.  If something goes wrong, don’t hesitate, and don’t wait for me—just go.  We’ll meet up later in a safer spot.  Joe knows where.”  Alex’s eyes darkened subtly.  “Joe’s the sentimental type, Pix.  He might hesitate to do what’s really necessary, if I’m not here with him.  I’m counting on you to see that he does.” 

It was…quite possibly the biggest responsibility Milly had ever been entrusted with.  Flunking cheating freshman—and possibly ruining their entire academic careers—was nothing in comparison.  But she could only give one answer.  “I will.”

“Good.  I knew you would.”  He gazed at her warmly for a moment, then looked down at his garish island shirt.  It was a particularly atrocious one that day, a gaudy pink surf board motif printed over a truly eye-bleeding neon orange.  He sighed.  “Now to decide what to wear.”

***

Alex left the very next morning, dressed in plain khaki dress pants, brown leather loafers, a very wrinkled and creased linen shirt, and a vintage black trench coat which he rolled up and carried under one arm.  (This last he disparaged as being “Pure overlookable Adam Pierson, circa 1994” when he first brought it down the stairs, but later,  Milly caught Jobey holding it up and stroking its lapels as tenderly as if greeting a long lost friend.)  Alex did indeed look quite ‘overlookable’ in the ensemble-- completely awkward and overdressed, like any other inexperienced business traveler who hadn’t quite figured out how to dress for the Caribbean heat.   This, Milly shortly discovered, was exactly Alex’s intention, since he was posing as an American curator who’d made an important local purchase and was now flying it back to his museum in New York.  “My sword, Pix,” he explained when he caught her frowning at the long, specially made aluminum shipping crate piled with the rest of his luggage.  “As long as I fake the paperwork convincingly enough, my sword is not a weapon—it’s a precious historical artifact, precious enough to travel with me on the plane.  I always book a second seat for it.  It’s much safer than checking it.  Or, god forbid, trying to ship it ahead…”

Alex was gone for about six days.  It was a very eventful six days for Milly, as Jobey took advantage of the time to initiate Milly into the mysteries of the island’s defenses:  all the devious, diabolical, and quite mind-bogglingly expensive things the two men had devised to keep their home safe.  The afternoon Alex returned, Milly sat with Jobey on the porch outside his music hut, going over what she’d learned while they waited for Paolo the Pilot’s familiar plane to finally make its appearance in the northern sky.  “Right,” Joe said cheerfully when it did.  “There they are.  They’ll be on the ground in less than thirty minutes, Sprout.  Let’s review the escape routes one more time before we go to meet them.  How many aircraft are there on this island, and where are they located?”

“Three,” Milly answered obediently.  “One small passenger plane in the hanger off the airstrip, plus one ultralight seaplane and one kit helicopter.  The last two are located in the camouflaged hanger on the western beach, and all three are always kept fueled and ready to go in case of an emergency.”  She raised her eyebrows at Jobey.  “Assuming, of course, that the emergency is truly extreme enough to risk *me* as a pilot.  You do know that it’s going to take me years to feel confident flying any of them, don’t you Jobey?”

Jobey patted her hand comfortingly.  “You’ll get there, Sprout,” he said.  “Both Methos and I are good teachers.  You’ll get the hang of flying soon enough, the same way you’ll eventually get used to using the mini-submarine and the deep-sea diving gear.  Which are located…?”

“The submarine is off the dock on the south beach.  One cache of diving gear is with it.  Another cache is buried on the north beach.  And the third is…”  She gave the bamboo flooring of the hut’s porch a firm tap with her foot.  “Right under here.  In a hidden concrete bunker, along with a truly frightening number of swords, machine guns, and tear gas canisters.  And in retrospect, Jobey?  I really should have known that this so-called ‘music hut’ of yours held far more than instruments, or you would have had it pulled down the second you moved in.  Retro-Gilligan’s-Island isn’t exactly your style.  Or Alex’s.  In spite of the island shirts.”

Jobey’s wrinkled face smiled fondly as he reached out to affectionately touch one bamboo beam.  “I don’t know.  It’s sort of grown on me,” he said.  “But it’s also worth remembering that this porch has the best view on the island of the northern sea—almost 200 degrees.  The only better place to see the surrounding ocean is the roof of the mansion…but Methos and I made most of our escape plans based on the assumption that it would no longer be habitable.  Which is why the weapons bunker under here also doubles as a bomb shelter, with enough food and water to last four people an entire year.”  He looked thoughtful.  “And speaking of weapons…how many caches are there in the house?”

“An even dozen,” Milly answered.  “The largest is in the kitchen, in the secret room hidden behind the refrigerator.  I’m still mad I missed that one, Jobey.  My Abuela would be ashamed to think that her granddaughter could live anywhere for as long as I’ve lived here without even once cleaning behind the fridge.  But the robots do such a good job cleaning the floors…and the fridge sure *looks* like it’s far too heavy to move…”

“It’s meant to look that way, Sprout.  Hopefully any unpleasant strangers who happen by will think so, too.  Other locations?”

“Um.  The second biggest weapons cache is in your and Alex’s bedroom, behind the secret panel in the walk-in closet.  Other smaller caches are hidden in Alex’s office, your office, the main stairway landings of all four floors, the theater behind the movie screen, the gym, and the laundry room behind the dryer— that’s another one I really should have guessed.  And finally, there’s the brand new one just inside my suite.” Milly suddenly sobered.  “Which is a thoughtfulness I highly appreciate, Jobey.  But it’s been giving me nightmares, too.  Somehow, when I decided to move in with you two, I never expected to have my own private collection of machine guns along with an office and a bath.  Or a machete.”  She shivered.  “I think the machete is the worse.”

“I know, Sprout,” Joe said.  “Believe me, I do.  And you might as well know that the nightmares are going to get worse, for a little while at least, when we actually start practicing with them.  Which we will.  Because there’s no point in having a gun you’re too scared to fire, or a machete you don’t know how to swing.  But as I said, there’s time for that.  For now it’s enough just to know where everything is…and to know that when the chips are really down, you’ll figure out a way to do what you have to.  I know you, Sprout.  You’re that kind.”  She gave him a wan smile.  He patted her hand again.  “In the meantime—what’s the command that will make Minerva flood the house with go-to-sleep gas?”

“Emergency Procedure double-zed,” she answered.  “And Emergency procedure double-zed-ex floods the house with go-to-sleep-forever.  For those of us who are mortal, anyway.”  She shivered again, despite the warm touch of the sun.  “Jobey.  I really don’t like knowing about that last one.  I concede the necessity for it…that someday, there just may be a situation desperate enough to require it.  And I appreciate the trust both you and Alex have in me by even letting me know such a contingency plan exists, let alone by giving me the code to trigger it.  But still.  I really, really don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, sweetheart.  Neither do I.”

They were silent for a while.  The small dot that was the seaplane continued to grow larger, slowly acquiring the shape of wings.  If she strained her ears, Milly could just make out the sound of its engine over the constant soft crash of the surf.  Joe suddenly brightened.  “You know how you should think of it all?”  he said.  “As a fire drill.”

“A fire drill?”

“Exactly, Sprout.  How many times have you practiced fire drills at school, as both a teacher and a student?  At least once or twice a semester for…oh, more than thirty years, I’ll bet.  And every single time you dutifully filed out of the building and stood out in the weather until you got the all clear.  You had to.  It would have been irresponsible not to.  But how many times was there an actual fire in the building causing you to evacuate?”

Milly snickered.  “Once, actually.  When a couple of Dr. Para’s Advanced Film students decided to pass around a few marijuana cigarettes during their screening of ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’.  I hear it made the birth of the Star Baby *much* more comprehensible--at least, until the kids accidently set fire to one of the desks.  But I do take your point.  And it helps.  Thanks, Jobey.”  No question about it now…the dot had acquired both wings and landing gear, and the hum of the engine was plain.  Milly regarded it sadly.  “I’ve learned a lot, these last few days.  I just wish I’d been able to learn more about the one thing Alex specifically asked me to learn about.  Who created our block, I mean.”

“Still no progress, Sprout?”

“None. Not that I’ve had a lot of time for hacking, what with all the training for worst-case scenarios I’ve been doing with you.  But I don’t think that having more time will make much of a difference.  I’ve already done everything I can do, while making sure that my queries remain invisible.   Maybe I could get somewhere if I pushed harder, but…”

“You’re not ready to do that yet.”  Jobey hummed thoughtfully.  “Maybe I should try leaving another message for Amanda.”

“Do you really think she could help?”

“I don’t know, Sprout.  But Amanda’s been doing black-hat computer security for more than thirty years, now.  If anyone can help you figure out what’s really going on at Plex, she’d be the one.”  He looked up at the plane, beginning to make its final approach.  “But I’m honestly not surprised that we haven’t heard back from her yet.  I doubt she’ll feel much like working just now.  And even if we could track her down and she did want to help, once she hears that you’re here, she’ll probably insist on coming to visit…which is not a good idea, with Mac already on the way.  Too many Immortals in the house tends to make Methos…itchy.” Jobey stood up.  “But I’ll try calling her again anyway.  Right now, though, we’d better start making our way back to the house, kiddo.   Just one more review question for you.  Where on the island can you find Holy Ground?”

Milly got to her feet as well.  “Easy.  The rocks with the ancient carvings, down amongst the old-growth mahogany trees. And anywhere that you’ve ever sung or played your guitar.”

He smiled.  “Flatterer.  Come on, let’s go.”

***

Paulo the Pilot had departed by the time Milly and Joe reached the kitchen door of the big colonial house; the familiar sea plane was already droning off into the sky.  This surprised Milly considerably, as Paulo usually came up to the house for a cup of coffee whenever he flew in.  This was a bit of schmoozing both men readily encouraged, as they depended heartily on Paulo’s discrete delivery service and wanted to stay on his good side--not that it really was much of an effort to do so.  Paulo was one of nature’s optimists, happy with his life, happy with his customers, always cheerful and comfortable to be around; Milly had stood “coffee duty” several times herself and never found it a chore.   Paulo was, after all, rather good looking.  Not to mention the only unattached human being she was likely to meet, living on Alex and Jobey’s island. 

Alas.  Paulo was a) male, and while Milly still privately acknowledged herself as being bisexual, all of her relationships to date had been with women, b) completely uninterested in cartography, apart from the chart-reading he had to do in order to fly, and c) already nursing quite the unrequited crush on Alex.  This last Paulo handled in such a selfless, gentlemanly manner, never calling attention to his feelings or allowing them to color his friendly treatment of Jobey, that Milly couldn’t help but be touched by it.  She and Paulo had quickly formed a slightly maternal-feeling-tinged friendship, which worked well for all concerned, especially for Milly herself.  There could be no denying that simply having another human being visit from time to time interrupted the tedium of their island life greatly.   

So Milly was startled to see the plane flying off so quickly.  Perhaps Paulo had another appointment he was late for?  But by the time she and Jobey had made their way through the house to the grand front entrance hall, the argument currently going on inside solved the mystery.  “But Paulo always carries my luggage up to the house, MacLeod,” Milly heard Alex say testily.  “Our guests, too, on the once-in-a-blue-moon occasion that we actually have one.  There was no need to be rude…”

“No need?” exclaimed a second voice.   “I think there *was* a need, Methos.  Or haven’t you noticed that the young man is hopelessly in love with you?”  There was brief silence, during which Milly shot a startled glance at Jobey—who simply shook his head, looking resigned.  The second voice spoke again.  “I don’t believe this,” it said, sounding on the verge of exploding with frustration.  “You DO know!  You did!  And you kept smiling at him like that anyway…what, to get better service?  A better *rate*? Good god, Methos!  Married for almost forty years, and you’re still as shameless a flirt as ever!”

“Me?”  Alex sounded incredulous, as well as a little hurt.  “Me??? Talk about the pot calling the kettle prismaticly-challenged, MacLeod!  *You* were the one that talked that little redhead at JFK into upgrading our seats for free…”

“That wasn’t flirting!  I was just being friendly!”

“So I suppose she texts a selfie with her personal phone number written across it to everyone, right along with their boarding pass and security clearance?  Just in case, I don’t know, they need some extra help finding their way to the gate?”  Alex’s voice was dripping with sarcasm now.  “Come off it, MacLeod.  You just celebrated your four hundredth and forty-third birthday, after all.  You *have* to have learned what effect batting those big brown eyes of yours has on people by now…”

“Oh, lord,” Jobey moaned softly.  “On the island for less than ten minutes, and they’re at it already.”  He gave Milly a bright, pasted on smile.  “Come on, honey.  We might as well interrupt them.  Or there might be swords drawn before dinner time.”

“Swords?” Milly repeated blankly.  “But…they wouldn’t.”  Jobey made a dry, non-committal, completely un-reassuring face, and Milly’s eyebrows shot sky-high.  “*Would* they?”

Jobey just shrugged.  They stepped through the arch into the entry. 

The instant they did, Milly’s heart gave a strange, sideways little beat.  Well, yes, of course.  Wouldn’t you know of it?  *Naturally* Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod would be even better looking than he’d been when she’d seen him in New York, almost seven months ago now. He was wearing a very well-fitting pair of jeans, expensive leather boots that were neither western nor rock star but managed to hit some elegant high note exactly in between, and a suede jacket with a flowing white poet’s shirt underneath—a slightly unusual combination, but one that expertly set off both the light caramel color of his skin and the muscular set of his shoulders.  When you combined that with dark hair waving down to his waist, the simple leather carry-all balanced on one shoulder, and what Milly now knew had to be a sword slung across his back, well wrapped in multiple layers of fabric as it was, he looked…well.  Exactly like what you would expect a 16th century romantic hero who had somehow stepped squarely into the 21st century to look. 

*Perfect* sighed some terrible, completely unreasonable part of Milly’s heart.  She pushed it away in favor of wondering, a little sarcastically, just how the Scottish Immortal was managing to look so cool in jeans and a leather jacket despite the island heat.  Certainly Alex, who was still dressed in *his* European travelling clothes, looked sweaty and uncomfortable enough for them both.  So clearly, Immortality alone did not protect one from the dangers of overdressing in a warm climate. 

Then again, perhaps Alex’s discomfort had nothing to do at all with his clothing, and everything to do with the glare his Scottish guest was currently leveling at him.  It *was* quite a glare. Milly found herself hanging back, some instinct she hadn’t even known she had prickling her neck and forearms and telling her very clearly that standing in between two angry Immortal warriors was the last thing she really wanted to do, thank you very much.  But Joe merely heaved a heavy sigh and crossed the hall, leaving Milly in the shadow of the marble stairway.  He walked to the two Immortals and gently cleared his throat.  “Ahem,” he said.  “Is this a private argument, gentleman?  Or can anyone join in?”

The effect of this was roughly akin to someone throwing baking soda on a grease fire.   The tension that had been making the hair on the back of Milly’s neck stand broke and dispersed at once.  “Joe,” Duncan whispered, his incredulity so painfully, breathtakingly clear that Milly instantly felt a bit ashamed of herself for mentally snarking at his wardrobe choices.  Then: “Joe!!!”  It was a joyful shout this time, and the Highlander practically bolted the handful of feet to Joe’s side.  The next minute he had dropped his carryall to the marble floor and was sweeping Jobey into a bear hug that would have toppled Jobey over completely, if it hadn’t been for his new, extra sticky cybernetic feet.

Alex let out a deep, joyful chuckle, instantly relaxing and leaning against the 18th century banister, to all appearances completely forgetting the argument he’d been engaged in mere moments before.  Milly expected Jobey to start laughing too, from relief if nothing else.  But Jobey didn’t laugh.  He just hugged back, reaching up to cradle the back of the man’s head in a way that made the six-foot-plus Highlander seem oddly like a small child being held by a much older grandparent.  “Easy there, easy,” Joe murmured.  Milly was astonished to see that Duncan was almost on the verge of tears…and that Jobey wasn’t far behind him.  “Easy. It’s all right,” the mortal repeated softly.  “It’s real.  I’m really here.”

Duncan MacLeod took a deep breath.  It came perilously close to becoming a sniffle.  “I’m just so glad to see you,” he said.  “I thought…all this time, I thought…”

“I know.”  Joe nodded.  “And I’m sorry.  I really, really am.”  He gave Duncan’s hair a final ruffle.  “But at least now you know how I felt, all those years ago, when Jack Shapiro called to tell me you’d lost your head in Paris.  I was busy dictating your *terminal report*, for god’s sake, when I saw you come running up the quay…”

Duncan gave a strained little laugh.  There could be no question about it, now.  Those were definitely tears glinting in his eyes.  “Well, things got a little busy after that, so I don’t think I ever truly appreciated what you must have felt,” he said.  “But as I recall, your first words were something like ‘You bastard, you’re really going to catch hell for this.”

And now Joe finally laughed, too.  Merrily.  “Going to cuss me out, Highlander?  I wouldn’t blame you, if you did.”

“I don’t think he needs to,” Alex interjected.  “Believe me.  I already ‘caught enough hell’ for us both.”  His gaze fell fondly over the two men from his place at the stairway.  “Not even I recognized a few of the phrases Duncan chose to abuse me with, although the gist was clear enough.  I think a few of them were in Navajo.  Unless the Clan MacLeod spoke an odder dialect of Gaelic than I ever before had reason to suspect.”

 “Oh, no, Mac.  Really?  Reduced to cursing in *Navajo?*” Jobey’s voice would have sounded scandalized if he hadn’t been laughing so hard.  “God, what is it about you two?  I really can’t leave you alone for a minute.” He shook his head disbelievingly.  “It’s not fair of you, you know, just to blame Methos.  It was my idea, just as much as his.” He frowned suddenly.  “Just how did you figure it out, anyway? We thought we’d been so careful.”

“Oh, believe me.  You were.”  And now there was a definite hint of anger in Duncan MacLeod’s manner, sparking dangerously in the dark brown eyes.  He shook it away, though, attempting to cover it with artificial lightness.  “I didn’t have a clue, until I talked to Methos on the phone about Dr. Alfonso coming to see me in New York.  Then…well…there were one or two things that made me wonder.  Nothing major.  Just…I didn’t believe that Methos could be quite so happy-sounding, less than six months after he buried you.”  He shot Alex an inscrutable look, then turned his attention back to Joe, smiling a smile heavy with self-mockery.  “But then again, I’ve never been good at interpreting the reasons why Methos does any of the things he does.  I probably would have never figured it out, if Cassandra hadn’t told me.”

 “Cassandra?”  Joe repeated blankly.  “But we haven’t heard from either Sandra or Cassie in decades.  Why on earth would they…?”

“Duncan has quite a tale to tell, Joe,” Alex interrupted.  “But it can wait, for a little while at least.  Neither of us has eaten anything since before we left Miami. And…” The fondness was back in his eyes.  “And I think Duncan needs a few minutes to get used to the sight of you walking around breathing again.  He’s believed you were dead for more than a year, after all.”

“Wait a minute,” Milly broke in.  She stepped out from behind the stairway, speaking without thinking.  “So you weren’t lying to me, when I met you in New York?  You genuinely thought Jobey was dead?”

If she’d thought that Duncan MacLeod’s reaction to seeing Jobey was extreme, it was nothing compared to the shock he exhibited upon seeing her.  “Milly,” he breathed, staring at her face in a way that made Milly wonder, uncomfortably, if she had a smudge of food or cartographer’s ink on her cheek.  (God knew, it wouldn’t have been the first time.)  One of the straps holding Duncan’s sword to his back slipped down his shoulder.  He shrugged it unconsciously back into place, then seemed to catch himself.  “I mean…Doctor Alphonso.  Of course.  Doctor Alphonso.  I had no idea that you’d be here.”  He turned his head accusingly to Methos.  “Why didn’t you tell me that Doctor Alphonso would be here?”

And now Alex looked puzzled.  “Well, where else would she be?” he asked, honestly mystified by the Highlander’s severity.  “You surely didn’t think I’d just let her go back to Las Cruces without even saying hello, did you?  After she’d spent a year and all her savings on private detectives, and then maxed out her credit cards flying to New York just to find me?”

“You let *me* go an entire year believing Joe was dead,” Duncan snapped, and Milly thought she saw a flash of that deep, vicious anger again.  Or was it hurt?  But when he turned back to her, his expression was gentle.  “I tried to contact you, you know,” he said softly.  “A few days after you left New York, I tried to call you in Las Cruces, just to make sure you’d gotten home all right.  When several more days went by and I still couldn’t get a hold of you, I called your school.  One of your departmental secretaries told me you were on indefinite medical leave, and had left no contact address…”

“Medical leave?” Milly repeated blankly.  “But I…”  She trailed off, aware that Methos was looking ever-so-slightly-guilty, and that Jobey was smiling brightly.  “But I *resigned*” she finished dully.  “Why on earth would they think…”

“I told you Methos had ways of getting around that sort of thing, honey,” Jobey said.  “The ‘unpaid medical leave’ dodge is one of his best.”

“Well, naturally you’d think so, Joe,” Alex replied tartly.  “Seeing as how I learned it from you.” Jobey just twinkled at him mischievously.  “It’s true, Pix,” Alex continued apologetically.  “I intercepted your resignation e-mail and replaced it with a request for medical leave instead.  You have an unspecified but very serious illness that will not let you work.  I even spoke to the head of your department on the phone as Dr. Benjamin Adams, and sent in a couple of letters on official medical stationary just to round things out…”

“*Doctor* Adams?”

“Doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief,” Duncan murmured under his breath.  “He’s got paperwork to cover it all.”

Methos shot him a very dark look before returning his attention to Milly.  “It seemed the best way to preserve your options, Pixie,” he said.  “You decided to send in your resignation after you’d been on the island for little more than a week.  That was before you knew…well, it was before you could have possibly known enough to make an honest decision, no matter how certain you thought you were.  Your Head agreed to keep your position open for a year—they’re hiring a few temporary teachers to fill in for you until then.  So yes, even now, you could still go back.”   He sighed.  “But there will be plenty of time to discuss it later, Pixie.  For now, as I said, Duncan has a tale to tell.  But I’d prefer it if we could do it in the kitchen.”  His shoulders slumped.  “I could really, really use a beer.”


	4. Don't go back to sleep.

To Milly, one of the most astonishing differences of being an adult living with Methos and Joe, as opposed to being a child living next door to Alex and Jobey, was the way Alex would go through vast amounts of beer each and every day, inhaling it as effortlessly as if it was the original Nectar of Life.  Milly had to admit, she’d been more than a little disturbed the first time she’d seen Paulo the Pilot offload more crates of alcohol for the residents of the island than he did actual food.  It had disturbed her even more when she’d learned such orders were delivered weekly, not just for special occasions as she’d first assumed.   Alcoholic beverages were, to her, inextricably linked to memories of both her father and Brian Smith.  And later on, as a foster child constantly moved from home to home, she’d…well.  She’d quickly learned that alcohol tended to magnify the worst parts of a person’s nature, not the finest. 

But she would freely admit that Alex’s daily ration of imported microbrew didn’t seem to magnify the worst parts of his nature.  It didn’t seem to affect him at all, actually, and Milly had thought she understood.  Not only did Alex’s Immortal constitution mean that any negative physical effects would be cured almost at once, but there must have been several millennia in his life when he’d drunk little else.  After all, making beer and wine was what humanity *did*, trusting in the alcohol to kill off harmful bacteria, before they’d figured out how to purify water chemically.  Of course drinking beer would be to Alex what drinking water was to her. 

But when Milly had somewhat shyly voiced this theory to Jobey, he’d shaken his head.  “There’s a bit more to it than that, Sprout,” he’d said.  “Beer is one of the few things that’s stayed relatively unchanged in the world ever since Methos was a child.  To him, it’s comfort food.”

“You mean, the same way your chili is to me?” Milly had answered, astounded.  Jobey, very touched and pleased, had instantly wanted to know how much she remembered of his old recipe.  So Milly had told him all about the experimenting she’d done in college to figure out the exact mix of spices, and they’d gone to the kitchen and made a humongous batch together—so humongous that all three of them had eaten the leftovers for more than a week.  It turned out that Milly’s childhood memory had played her false on a few of the chili’s ingredients, but Jobey had declared that adding both chocolate and epazote was a stroke of brilliance that made her version even better than his. With the end result that Milly had more or less forgotten where the conversation began.

She remembered it now, though.  It was a little hard not to, watching the way Alex strode directly to the refrigerator and grabbed himself a bottle, then effortlessly flicked off the cap and consumed the entire contents in one go before reaching for a second.  He certainly looked like he could use some comfort, and Milly sincerely hoped that he was finding it.  Quite possibly, Jobey did too, because he didn’t reprimand Alex at all for serving himself before his guests.  He just looked at his husband fondly, shook his head, and pushed past him to the refrigerator. Jobey took out another two beers, one for both himself and Duncan MacLeod, and a small bottle of sparkling grape juice for Milly.  “Once a bartender, always a bartender,” he said with a grin as he began gracefully pouring the beverages into glasses.  “Who’s hungry?  Methos? Mac? I can have a proper meal on the table in half an hour.  Or we could just open up some packages of potato chips and pretzels and whatnot. I—“  His expression darkened just a little.   “I guess it depends on how quickly you two want to move from eating into storytelling mode.”

Methos didn’t answer—he just put aside his second bottle, now as miraculously empty as the first, and went back to the fridge for a third.  *Wow*, Milly thought, somewhat awed.  *I’d thought I’d seen him drink a lot before, but I’ve never seen him go through three bottles in less than three minutes.  He must really be in need of comfort.* Duncan spoke up instead.  “Whatnot sounds fine, Joe,” he said.  “I’d rather—well. I’d rather show you what I came to show you before I relax.  If that’s all right with you.”  He swallowed, casting a surprisingly awkward glance in Milly’s direction.  “But I don’t know what time you and Dr. Alfonso usually eat.  If I’m interrupting your schedule…”

“Not at all, Mac,” Joe assured.  Milly jumped up and started getting bags and boxes of snack food out of cupboards, eager to have something to do to distract herself from the obvious tension in the room.  Much to her surprise, Duncan laid his sword and carryall gently down on a counter and came to help her—chivalrously holding the cabinet doors open while she rummaged in their depths, then helping her carry the resulting booty out to one of the center islands.  He did this silently, with such a strange, preoccupied expression on his face that Milly found her cheeks growing quite warm.  *You’re just not used to chivalry, my dear,* she told herself firmly.  *This is a man from a different time, after all.  He was probably trained from toddlerhood to be polite and helpful to women—any woman.  It’s got nothing to do with you.*  

Somehow, Milly managed to get the various boxes and bags open, their contents dispensed into serving bowls, and the bowls carried next door to the dining room without any embarrassing mishaps.  She even managed to tell Duncan not to be silly, that of course he must call her Milly instead of Dr. Alphonso in the process, a courtesy he accepted with grave, almost courtly dignity.  Milly thought she saw Jobey looking at her strangely once or twice, but he just grabbed Alex by the elbow and pulled him into the dining room, too.  (Alex snagged another full six pack out of the fridge as he went.)  Several minutes of silent chomping and drinking followed, while everyone settled in around the table and took the edge off their hunger.  Then Jobey spoke.  “Okay, Mac,” he said, kind but firm.  “I think it’s time, now.  You officially have the floor.”

“Yes.”  The Highlander nodded awkwardly, long fingers wrapped around his own beer bottle.  Rather surprisingly, he hadn’t drunk more than a few sips.  “Well.  I guess I should start by saying that I’ve been fighting a lot of Challenges lately…” 

Alex mumbled something loudly into his bottle.  Duncan stopped in mid-sentence, awkwardness quickly turning to irritation.  “Methos?” he said severely.  “I take it you have something to share with the class?”

The old Immortal snorted again.  “Just that this should hardly be news,” he said, and Milly had to wonder if he wasn’t feeling some of the effects of the alcohol, after all.  “Honestly, MacLeod, if you’d really wanted to stay out of the Game, you’d have never left Scotland.  New York has always been one of the most active hunting grounds in the Game.  How many skyscraper’s electrical systems have you personally been responsible for shorting out by now? Ten?  Or was it twelve?” 

“Methos,” Jobey said reprovingly.  Alex subsided, taking another pull of his beer and sprawling backward in his chair with a chastened-but-still-defiant expression.  “Mac,” Jobey continued worriedly.   “These Challengers.  Were they…” 

“No.”  Duncan shook his head.  “They weren’t Token Bearers, Joe.  Neither red nor white.  At least, I’m pretty sure.”  His lip twisted wryly.  “As Methos so… generously… pointed out, I do live in New York.  It isn’t always feasible to search a body head-to-toe there after a Challenge.  No matter how hard you try to find a private location, there’s always some kind of bystander around.  Not to mention that the NYPD has gotten a lot faster over the last few decades...”

“But you must have been able to search at least a few.”

“Yes.”  Duncan nodded.   “In the last six months, I’ve fought eight Challengers.  And of those eight, I know for sure that at least five of them had nothing even resembling a token anywhere on their persons.”  He looked subdued.  “That’s what worries me, really.  None of those five Challengers carried tokens, Joe…but all of them *acted* like they did.  They either fought me like I was monster that had to be wiped off the face of the earth at all costs, or else they…well, you know.” He shot an uncomfortable glance at Milly, then glanced back at Alex and Jobey.  “They played with me.  Snared me with their energy, and then practically threw themselves onto my sword…”

“Oh, yes, I know.”  Alex straightened up in his chair.  There was no trace of defiance in his manner now.  “Suicide via Challenge.  I know it very, very well.”  He spoke with uncharacteristic hesitance.  “Mac. I don’t suppose any of the unlucky eight…gave…you anything that might help us track them down?  Or learn who might be leading them?  I wouldn’t ask, but…”

“No, Methos.”  The Highlander seemed even more hesitant than Alex had.  “I’m sorry.  I can give you their descriptions, and tell you something about their fighting styles and the swords they carried.  But nothing more.”  He looked down at his boots.  “I can’t even tell you any of their names.”

“No,” Alex agreed.  There was a huge amount of grief in the word.  “I couldn’t tell you the names of any of mine, either.”  He worried his lip for a moment, then slumped grumpily back into his chair.  “Well.  It’s not like having names would have done us much good, not now that the Watcher Chronicles are beyond our reach.  But dictate anything you can remember to Minerva anyway, Highlander.  Then we’ll compare and contrast it with the file I started back in the ‘zeroes, when this whole debacle began. I seriously doubt we’ll find any common threads.  But it’s a start.”

“Excuse me,” Milly interrupted.  Her stomach had started doing unpleasant things in her midsection.  *Eight Challenges,* she thought.  *That means that the handsome, charming—well, charming when he’s not arguing with Alex, at least—perfectly sane-looking man standing in front of me has beheaded eight people during the last six months.  And they’re all sitting around like…like that’s *normal*.  How can they?* 

But of course she already knew.  To them it *was* normal.  And Milly had chosen to sit at the grown up table.  So sit at it she would, keeping her twisty-turny tummy all to herself.  But she would be damned if she did it without understanding the whole story.  “I think I might have missed something along the way,” she said politely.  “What on earth is a Token Bearer?”

All three of the Immortals exchanged poignant glances.  “That is a very long story, Pixie,” Alex said.

“Oh, and it’s not like you’ve never told me one of those,” Milly retorted.  “Alex.  I can’t be a part of this if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“No.”  Alex agreed.  “Well.  I suppose…it really starts back in 250 AD.  The year Kahvin the Holy decided to found his Immortal Sanctuary.”   He shrugged apologetically.  “I did say it was a long story.”

“An expression that takes on a whole new meaning around you,” Milly agreed.  “Don’t apologize, Alex.  It can’t be worse than some of the history of cartography lectures I sat through as an undergrad.  Who was Kahvin the Holy?” 

“I’ll do my best to give you the Reader’s Digest version, Pix.  Kahvin was a Christian monk who founded a monastic sanctuary for his fellow Immortals on Holy Ground, an island off the coast of France.  In theory, the monastery was supposed to be a place of learning and a refuge for any Immortal who wanted to escape the Game.”

“And in practice?”

“In practice, the Sanctuary’s purpose was much, much darker.  Kahvin was a very charismatic leader, you see, and he ran the Sanctuary a lot like a modern cult—with the same brainwashing and complete obedience expected of his disciples.  Every few centuries, he would send his most loyal followers out into the world for a period of ten years--allegedly to gain experience and to gather news, but in reality, simply to take the head of every Immortal they came across.  Each one was given Kahvin’s token to carry before he left, a small square of red fabric embroidered with a golden letter K.  At the end of the ten years, the Immortals who survived would return to the Sanctuary and then fight each other, until only one remained.”  Alex looked down into his lap.  “When they finished, Kahvin would behead the winner.  Taking the united Quickening power of hundreds, if not thousands, of Immortals with just one blow.”

“Oh,” Milly said blankly.  “Alex, how on earth did he get away with it?  Surely his followers must have resisted…”

“How does any cult leader talk his followers into committing mass suicide?” Alex answered.  “With a combination of incredible charisma and unthinkable savagery, Pixie.  The Sanctuary was separated from the mainland by a sand bar full of sinkholes.  Anyone who questioned Kahvin’s word was made to ‘walk the sands’ without a guide—a hideous threat, as any Immortal who fell into one of the pits would have stayed there for eternity, suffocating and reviving and suffocating again, over and over without end.  Losing one’s head would have been merciful, in comparison.”  Milly felt her stomach lurch yet again.  “On the other hand,” Alex continued, “Kahvin’s faithful were promised…well.  I’m not sure just what he promised them, exactly.  But whatever it was, it must have been as alluring to Kahvin’s followers as the promise of an eternal life in paradise is to your average cultist.  Even those few who left and started rewarding lives elsewhere eventually returned.  Almost no one managed to walk away from the Sanctuary forever, with their heads still intact.”  Alex’s lip curled distastefully.  “So far as I know, I was the only one who ever did.  At least until 1693.”

She almost didn’t want to know.  “And what happened in 1693?”

“The inexplicable.”  Alex took a sip of his beer.  “One bright morning, Kahvin got up, walked out the Sanctuary gates, crossed the sands, and voluntarily knelt before another Immortal—one of the sickest, most sadistic examples of our kind to ever foul this earth.  He was called…”

“The Kurgan,” Duncan interrupted grimly.

“Yes,” Alex agreed.   “Naturally, the Kurgan took Kahvin’s head.  He then proceeded to have a merry old time using the astonishing power Kahvin’s Quickening had given him to mow down every Immortal unlucky enough to cross his path.  At least, he did right up until 1988, when—almost equally inexplicably—someone finally beat him.  A mere four hundred and seventy year old child, by the name of…”

“Methos.”  Duncan’s voice was a warning. 

“By the name of Connor MacLeod, Duncan’s clansmen and first teacher,” Alex finished.  He inclined his head at Duncan, a look of true contrition in his eyes.  “I’m sorry, Duncan.  I’m not trying to cast a shadow over Connor’s memory.  We all know he was one of the great ones.”  Duncan nodded, seeming somewhat mollified.  “But even you have to admit that Connor should not have won that fight,” Methos continued.  “The fact that he did has astounded Watchers and Immortals alike for nearly fifty years.  I don’t think we’ll ever truly understand what happened.” He shivered.  “We can only be grateful that it happened the way it did.”

“Amen,” said Jobey.  Prayerfully.

“The Sanctuary did not survive long after Kahvin’s death,” Alex continued.  “Kahvin’s remaining followers abandoned the monastery, scattering to the four winds.  And nothing more was heard of them, at least not by me, until 2006.  When I suddenly found myself Challenged, right outside my linguistics classroom at UNM.  And discovered, after I won, that my Challenger was carrying Kahvin’s token upon his body.”

“You—“ Milly’s mouth went dry.  “You…took heads?  In *Las Cruces*?” 

Alex and Jobey both suddenly assumed guarded, careful looks. Milly caught herself immediately.  “No, no, cancel that,” she said.  “Of course, you must have.  I just hadn’t thought…” She swallowed suddenly, remembering a certain night she’d long ago dismissed as insignificant.  “Wait.  That man that came to the house that time.  The one you said you had to, ah, ‘argue’ with.  Right after Abuela passed away.  Was he…”

“A Token Bearer, Pixie, yes,” Alex answered.  “I killed four of them altogether, while we were living in Las Cruces.  The last one…the last one found me the same night we left.  Only a few hours after we left you.”  He looked at Milly carefully, silently asking with his eyes if it was all right to continue.  She nodded, determinedly, and he resumed.  “That last one…Joe and I were able to confine her and have a brief conversation, before she broke free and forced me into taking her head.  She said that Kahvin the Holy had left a prophecy behind.  She wasn’t particularly forthcoming as to the details, but apparently it predicted that the end of the Game was nigh…and that I was one of the possible candidates for winning it.  She and her organization—and again, she was annoyingly unspecific as to just what that organization was—were willing to do everything in their power to keep me from becoming the One.  The only thing that had stayed their hand, up until that moment, was the fact that her group hadn’t known for sure that Alex Porter really was the “Eldest” spoken of in the prophecy.  But they knew for sure then, having heard Joe call me by my real name.  And were going to make it their business to hunt me down from that day on, no matter how far or fast I ran.”  He looked uncomfortable.  “A chilling threat, as I’m sure you can imagine.  But it was suddenly made even more so.  Because after her death, Joe discovered that the lady wasn’t just carrying Kahvin’s token.  She also had a Watcher tattoo…”

Milly’s eyes widened.  She looked at Joe, who nodded.  “That’s right, Sprout,” he confirmed.  “She was an Immortal *and* a Watcher.  And no, neither us had any idea who she was.  Methos didn’t—obviously, they’d never met while he was still a Watcher himself, or he would have known immediately what she was.  Me, I had a feeling that I’d seen her somewhere, maybe working in one of the Watcher’s legal offices with Christine Salzer.  It would have fit the clothes she was wearing.  But I couldn’t really place her, either.” 

“It doesn’t really matter, Joe,” Alex said.  “Whoever she was…she obviously had friends.  Watcher friends, who were able to use all the Watcher resources to keep finding us.  We still don’t know how many there were, whether their leaders were mortal or Immortal, or exactly where in the Watcher organization they were placed.  But one’s thing for sure.  Find us they did.  Over and over again.” 

“Yes.”  Joe looked bleak.  “As Methos has already told you, Sprout, those were an awful run of years.  I lost track of the number of Immortal crazies we ran into, all determined to take Methos’s head.  Methos didn’t fight all of them, of course.  Mostly, we just shot them temporarily dead and ran.  But every now and then we’d have no choice.”  Jobey suddenly went very still.  The next words came out in a near-whisper.  “Especially once the bastards figured out that the only really reliable way to make Methos fight was to take me as a hostage…” 

Methos reached out to take his partner’s hand.  “Joe wanted to leave me then,” he said quietly.  “He thought he was making me vulnerable.  But I told him that even if we separated, they’d still come after us both…and we were stronger together.  Not to mention that as far as I was concerned, a life without Joe in it was no life at all…”  They gazed at each other, sharing a look of furious, painful love, until Methos finally squeezed Joe’s hand and looked away.  “Meanwhile, while all this was going on, Duncan was having problems of his own.”

“Pretty much the same problem,” Duncan answered, with a sad, wistful look on his face.  “Except that I had no Joe at my side to help me through it.”  He cleared his throat and nodded at Milly.    “Challengers started coming at me from every direction.  I’d always been an active player in the Game, but this was unlike anything even I’d ever faced.  Immortals I didn’t know kept showing up everywhere I went, Challenging me without so much as giving me their names.  And they all refused to take no for an answer.   Eventually…”

“Eventually we discovered that there were two types of Challenger, bearing two different colors of token,” Methos said.  “The first type were…aggressive.  It was just like Duncan just said.  They fought me as though I was the worst abomination on the planet, and they must give their all to eradicate me.  The second type was…also aggressive, but to a different end.  Crazy as it sounds to say it, they seemed to actually *want* to give up their heads.  They would…” He looked at Duncan.  “I’m not sure how to explain.”

“They would manipulate us,” Duncan said.  He evaded Milly’s curious glance, looking quite embarrassed.  “Neither Methos nor I knew this, but apparently it’s possible for one Immortal to use his Quickening to…entice another’s, I guess, is the right way to describe it.  We’d get drawn into the Challenge in spite of ourselves, but the battle itself would feel more like a seduction than a genuine fight.  And when the other Immortal would finally surrender and kneel…well, it was feeling like nothing else.  Methos is right.  It *is* impossible to explain.”  His cheeks flushed for a moment.  “And,” he went on, voice a little strained, “thank heavens, it only ever happened with people who *wanted* to surrender.  Otherwise…”

“The Game would be even more horrifyingly dangerous than it already is,” Alex finished.  “I agree.  It only ever seemed to happen with Challengers who genuinely wanted to lose.  Which is not something I’d honestly ever run into before, not once in 5,000 years.  It wasn’t that I hadn’t met suicidal Immortals before…I had.  But every single Immortal I’d ever known who actively sought his own death was still conflicted about it on some level, unable to surrender completely until a stronger Immortal forced him to.”    Alex’s forehead creased thoughtfully.  “So maybe this ‘seduction’ is a natural phenomenon, and just happens spontaneously when an Immortal genuinely wants to surrender, mind and body and soul.  Or maybe it’s a special skill one has to be trained to, like Cassandra’s Voice.  Although it’s hard to imagine how anyone could actually learn it and still stay alive long enough to teach someone else.  But either way…” He sighed.  “Either way, it soon became evident that there were two types of Challengers, and they each carried their own color of token.  For me, the ones who really wanted my head carried a white one.  And the ones who wanted to seduce me into taking theirs carried red.”

“But for me, it was just the opposite,” Duncan said.  He was looking at Milly again, quite earnestly, as if relieved he finally had something to talk about that wasn’t quite so embarrassing.  “The ones who wanted my head carried red, while the ones who wanted me to take theirs carried white.  And so…”

“And so,” Methos picked up neatly, “given that Duncan and I seemed to be the only two Immortals in the world blessed with these nutsos—Amanda, for instance, never faced a single Challenger carrying a token, nor did any other Immortal we knew—we came to a conclusion.  Kahvin’s followers—the ones who believed in his prophecy about the end of the Game-- must have undergone a schism at some point, split into two camps.  Each the deadly enemy of the other.”

“Yes?” Milly said impatiently.  “And just what do these two factions actually want?”

“We think one faction—the whites—desperately want Duncan to be The One,” Methos answered.  “And that the red faction wants it to be me.”

***

 “It really isn’t so hard to fathom,” Methos said quietly, speaking gently into the pin-drop silence that followed this declaration.  “If a group of Immortals really believed that the Gathering was near and that they knew who the final two would be, it makes sense that they would either offer their heads and strength to the person they supported, or else do their damn silly best to destroy the competition.  And--provided that you’re delusional enough to believe that the Gathering is real in the first place-- Duncan and I are both logical candidates for being the winner.” He smiled softly at Milly’s incredulity.  “I am, as you know, very old,” he explained.  “And I have taken more heads than I can count.  Many of them belonged to other Immortals who had lived for just as long and had taken just as many.  It adds up.  Whereas Duncan…” Alex looked at the Highlander, and Milly was surprised to see a ferocious kind of tenderness in his eyes… “may still just be a kid in diapers by comparison, but…”

“Mee-thos.” 

It was another warning growl from the Highlander.  But somehow Milly didn’t take this one as seriously. It held much more fond exasperation than genuine displeasure.  Alex certainly seemed to take it that way, for he grinned knowingly.  “Just telling the simple truth, MacLeod,” he said.  “Nevertheless, Duncan has taken some very old Immortals indeed—Grayson, Haresh Clay, and Kronos, just to name a few.  And then when he took Connor…and then the Kell…”

“Connor?”  Milly blinked at the Highlander, not sure how to even begin processing this latest news.  “You…you Challenged your Teacher?”

“I didn’t want to!” Duncan’s voice was rough.  “It was Connor’s idea, not mine.  It…he..” He looked helplessly at Joe.

“Duncan really didn’t want to, Milly,” Joe stepped in quickly.  “Connor forced him.  Tricked Duncan into using an impossible sword move, one there was no human way to avoid following through on.  They were facing an Immortal called the Kell, you see.  He was the last of the great evil Immortals, and Connor believed that he was too strong for either him or Duncan to defeat on their own.  He was probably right, too.  The Kell was ruthless, and had taken more heads than either Duncan or Connor had on their own.  But together…”  Joe spread his hands. 

“Connor’s Quickening was his final gift to me,” Duncan said quietly.  “A sacrifice, just like Methos said.  It gave me the strength to defeat Jacob Kell.”  He looked at Alex, for the first time allowing a trace of hurt to show on his face.  “Methos.  Why on earth did you have to bring this up now?”

“I am sorry, Duncan.”  Once again, Methos was genuinely contrite.    “But I need Milly to understand.  Kahvin, having absorbed the Quickening of all his followers and every Immortal they’d killed, offered his head to the Kurgan.  The Kurgan fell to Connor MacLeod.  And then Connor sacrificed his head to Duncan.  That’s a lot of power, Milly.  Especially when you add the Kell in, too. In fact…” He looked at Duncan, half appraising, half something else that Milly couldn’t interpret.  “In fact, it makes me strongly suspect that the Token Bearers, despite being several bulbs short of a chandelier as they doubtlessly are, may have at least one detail correct.  It’s impossible to know for certain, of course.  But I’m reasonably sure that Duncan and I are now the two strongest Immortals left on earth.”

The two Immortals locked gazes, held it for a long time.  Milly looked back and forth between them.  “But then…which one of you is the most powerful?” she asked.  “If you Challenged each other, which one of you would win?”

There was a long silence.  Then, gaze still locked, Duncan stood, walked over to Methos, and offered his hand.  It wasn’t the way a modern man would offer a handshake.  It was more the way a medieval man might have clasped hands to celebrate a bargain made, or possibly the way two warriors might seal a peace.  After a moment, Methos clasped Duncan’s hand back. And held it, still looking. 

“We aren’t ever going to find out,” Duncan said.

***

In later years, Milly would realize that was the moment that she truly fell in love with Duncan MacLeod.  There was just so much stateliness in the way he held himself, and so much emotion in his dark eyes—a whole ocean full, so deep Milly knew she’d have to live for four hundred and fifty years herself to even begin to fathom a teaspoonful.  *He looks like a king,* she thought, and then: *why do we always build statues and paint painting of our leaders at the moments when they are declaring war, when declaring peace takes so much more strength?*  A very difficult question, one that Milly was more than happy to leave for future years to answer.  If they could.  Milly honestly had her doubts. 

But at that moment, the revelation was still far, far ahead of her.  Milly just watched, half-understanding, half-not, as a covenant powerful enough to reshape the future of the entire world was made before her eyes.  The hand-clasp, and the moment, seemed to stretch on and on…until Jobey gently cleared his throat.  “I think another ‘Amen’ is in order,” he said. 

He said it with great reverence, but it was enough to break the spell.  Both Alex and Duncan chuckled softly.  Then they gave each other’s hands a final squeeze and let go, Duncan gracefully returning to his seat.  The Highlander looked very satisfied.  Alex looked…Milly wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his expression.  There was more than a hint of shell-shock, there.  But he also looked warmly happy.  “Agreed,” Alex said.  “But fascinating as all this is, MacLeod, I think we’ve gotten a little off-topic.  You were telling us about the Challenges you’ve been fighting lately.”

“Yes,” Jobey agreed.  “They really weren’t carrying tokens, Mac?” 

“No,” Duncan said.  “At least, none of the ones that I had the opportunity to search did.  But they acted the same way the Token Bearers always have.  The same dynamic—either berserker-mad or suicidal.  About twice as many suicidal ones as beserkers, I think.  And I didn’t know any of them.  Well, at least not until the last one.”  He suddenly seemed weary.  “It was Trent, Joe.”

“Trent???”  Both Alex and Jobey spoke in unison.  Jobey looked particularly upset.  “Oh, Mac.  I’m sorry.”

Duncan shrugged.  “It’s just the way it is,” he said.  He turned to Milly.  “Trent was an Immortal friend of mine in Seacouver back in the 1990’s.  One of the good ones, as Joe would say.  Pretty much his only crime against humanity was the writing of really, really bad historical romances…”

“With lots and lots of sword fighting,” Joe interjected.  He looked both amused and sad.

“Yes,” Duncan agreed, a trace of a smile lingering on his lips.  It vanished a second later.  “I didn’t recognize him, Joe. And I should have.  He certainly didn’t look any different.  He had on the same old jeans and flannel shirt that were popular in Seacouver when Kurt Cobain was alive, still wore the same old scruffy beard.  But his eyes…he didn’t look like anything like himself.  So mindless.  So determined.  It wasn’t until after the Quickening hit that I finally knew…” The Highlander’s mouth worked helplessly for a minute before he recovered his control.  “Anyway.  I spent the next few weeks at home.  Mourning, I guess.  And I had the very strong feeling that if I set foot outside my door, I’d just be drawn into another Challenge, which was something I really didn’t want to do just then. So…. you can imagine how I felt when someone rang my doorbell and I suddenly felt another Immortal Presence. But when I looked through the security glass, it was Cassandra standing on my stoop.”

Jobey whistled softly.  “I still don’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head.  “Sandra.  After all these years.  How did she look, Mac?”

“The same way she always looks,” he answered.  “You know Cassandra, Joe.  Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfectly cut clothes any fashion model would kill to wear half as well.  Although…” Duncan suddenly looked thoughtful.  “Although for some reason, she had an old t-shirt that said something like ‘Ten is My Doctor’ on under her suit jacket.  I never did get around to asking her about it, although I wanted to.  It really did strike me as rather odd…”

But Alex had squeezed his eyes closed.  “Doctor Who,” he said firmly. 

“Yes,” Jobey agreed.  “Has to be.  Cassie’s influence, no doubt.  That girl always was thirty years behind in her television viewing.  I supposed we should be glad the two of them have finally moved on from idolizing Mister Spock.”  He looked curiously at the Highlander.  “Was Cassie there too, Mac?”

“I don’t think so,” Duncan answered.  “But then, I’ve never met the lady, or even seen a picture of her.  There’s a café that’s almost always full of people right across the street—it’s possible that she was watching us from there.  But Cassandra certainly didn’t introduce me, if she was. She just walked into my foyer, laid her hand on my face, and said, ‘It’s time for you to stop grieving for Trent, Duncan.  He’s exactly where he wants to be.’ And then she told me to go get my coat and my highest-limit credit card.” A tiny, reminiscent smile crept onto his lips.   “I was going to treat her to lunch at the most exclusive, most expensive restaurant in the city.”

“Yup.  That’s Sandra, all right,” Joe said.  Milly thought he was suppressing a reminiscent smile of his own.  “I assume that you obliged her, Mac?”

“Who am I to argue with a lady? Of course I did.”  The Highlander smiled again, much more genuinely this time.  “And she put quite a dent in my bank account, let me tell you.  It’s amazing how much that woman can eat.  It reminded me a lot of entertaining Amanda, actually.  Except that Amanda would have insisted we go shopping at some high-fashion boutique or jewelry store first, and Cassandra seemed happy enough with lunch.  But it was fun, Joe.  Fun to see her again, fun just to sit and talk.” 

“And what did you two talk about, Mac?”

“Travelling, mostly,” Duncan answered.  “Japan, Brazil, West Africa, Spain--apparently Cassandra had visited them all in just the last year or so, and we spent the meal comparing notes.  It wasn’t until dessert had come and gone that I finally got around to asking what had brought her to New York.  She gave me one of those brilliant smiles of hers and said, “well, *you*, of course, Solstice Child.  I’m on my way home now…I’ve let my own foolishness waste enough precious time with my beloved Cassie as it is.  But first, I needed to give you something.  Something you’re going to need.’ And then she gave me this.”  He unzipped his carryall and took out a book.

It was, Milly saw at once, a very old book.  Very old, and very, very fragile.  In fact, when Duncan laid it reverently on the table and carefully opened its well-worn leather binding, it was plain to see that that the frontispiece had been torn in a great ragged swath from the upper right hand corner to the lower left, leaving only a flapping triangle behind.  It seemed a true shame.  Not only had the frontispiece been beautifully illustrated, the book had clearly never had that many pages to start with.  The binding was very thin, and as Duncan carefully flipped through the leaves, Milly saw that there were only twenty pages or so, no more.  She looked up at Duncan, and saw him watching Joe with an indecipherable look in his eyes.  “Our history is repeating itself,” he said.  “Go ahead, Joe.  I’d like to know what you think of it. Just…” He laughed shakily.  “Just please don’t tell me that the illustrations are lovely, and probably done by monks.”

Jobey winked at him teasingly.  “Well, at the very least, I promise not to tell you that I have a weakness for beautiful things,” he said.  They were words that had absolutely zero meaning to Milly, and—judging by the confused look Alex was shooting at his husband—not a lot for the World’s Oldest Immortal, either.  But Duncan suddenly coughed, and flushed, and generally seemed in a fair way to be wishing the earth would swallow him.  Jobey smiled again—this time a toothy, satisfied, shark-like smile Milly had honestly never seen him use before—before he turned his attention to the book’s frontispiece.  Suddenly, Jobey’s smile drained away.  “Oh. No.”

“Ah.”  Alex’s total attention was on Jobey, now.  “So you see it, too.”

“Yeah,” Jobey said quietly.  “I sure do.”  He ran a gentle fingers over the torn page—which had “The Key” written across the top, in some of the most stunning illuminated letters Milly had ever seen.  “Mac, I’m afraid I have no choice *but* to tell you that this book was made by monks.  This calligraphy is amazing.  Monks would pretty much have been the only ones during this time period that would have had both the time and skill to create a frontispiece like this.  But the real clincher is this.”  He pointed to the bottom right corner.

Milly squinted…and decided that she needed a better look than her across-the-table vantage could give her.  She crowded in next to Jobey.  Just above his finger, a strange symbol was half hidden on the page, woven expertly into the flourishes that decorated the vellum right above the torn edge.  It was a dotted circle, with a letter K at its heart.  “The symbol of Kahvin the Holy?” she asked.

“The symbol of Kahvin the Holy,” Jobey confirmed.  “Methos?  Did you…”

“No, Joe.  I never saw anything like this book in the Sanctuary while I was Kahvin’s Librarian,” Methos answered.  “But that’s not too surprising.  From the vellum and the binding, I’d say this book was created at least a hundred years after my sojourn there—it’s 14th century at the earliest.  Although I think it’s quite probable that it’s a copy of a much, much earlier work.  I can’t think of any other reason why the title would be in English, and the rest of the text in ancient Greek.”  He stood, joining the little group gathered at the table, and gently reached past them to turn a few pages.  His elegant fingers traced lightly down the page, stopped below a single word.  “Joe?  How is your Greek these days?  Can you read this?”

“It’s rusty,” Jobey admitted.  “And I never did read it as easily as I wanted to.  However…”  He scrutinized the word, and suddenly went pale.  “Oh.”

Duncan was watching Jobey closely.  “You see now why I thought I had to bring it to your attention,” he said.

“Yeah.  Yeah, yeah, I see.” Jobey swayed slightly, holding onto the edge of the table for support. 

Milly, now completely baffled, attempted to read the offending word for herself.  She suspected that her own Greek was even rustier than Jobey’s, since she’d barely ever used it, either academically or professionally.  What little knowledge she still retained was due almost entirely to the language games Alex had once played with her as a child, long ago and far away.  Still, this word… χρόνου … Milly thought she still knew, and for the life of her couldn’t figure out why it had gotten such a reaction.  “But all that means is ‘time’,” she said.  “I don’t understand…”

Alex’s lips quirked.  “My own fault,” he said wryly, “for teaching you to think more about the translated meanings of Greek and Latin words than the spoken sound of them, Pix.  We never really did have conversations in Greek, did we?  Just translated the odd word here and there for fun.  Put it in the nominative case instead of the genitive, and sound it out.”

Oh, lord.  Nothing like a pop quiz from your favorite childhood teacher to get the blood flowing.  Milly mentally changed the case and traced the word in the air in front of her—Χρόνος—then struggled, character by character, to sound it out.  Alex was right, she’d only ever learned to recognize a handful of Greek words by sight, never to hear the sounds within her head.  When she finally got it, a look of absolute horror crossed her face. 

“Kronos???”

***

“To be fair,” Alex said, speaking very quietly and carefully, “’Kronos’ is a very common word.  Particularly when it comes to religious prophecy…which is what this little book seems to contain.  And I would be very remiss if I didn’t point out that, nowadays, ‘xρόνος’ is much more commonly translated into the Latin alphabet with a ‘C’ as its first letter, not a ‘K’.  But even so, to those of us in this room, the word can’t help but have an, ah, special meaning.  Particularly when you take into account the phrase in which it repeatedly appears within the text. Eleven times, altogether.  This is just the first.”   He traced the line within the book.  “’Το τέλος του χρόνου.’  ‘The End of Time.’”

“Kronos’s last words,” Jobey breathed.

“Exactly.”  Alex nodded at Milly.  “Pix, the last thing my mad brother ever said on earth was this: “You don’t understand—I am the end of time!”  I always thought they were a rather strange choice of parting words.  But now I’m beginning to wonder.”  He looked meditatively down at the book.  “Even stranger, however, is the fact that this phrase is repeated over and over again, with different words substituting for Kronos in the starring role.  Apparently this prophecy predicts not just the end of Kronos…but also the end of Kairos.  And finally the end of Aionos, too.”

“Kairos?  Aionos?”

“They’re all Greek words for different kinds of time, Pix.  Kronos refers to ordinary, regular time, the kind that’s easily measured in days or months or years.  ‘Clock time’ would be a good modern translation.  Aionos originally meant a very long, almost unimaginably long, span of Kronos…the English word “eon” is descended from it.  Eventually, however, it came to be more commonly translated as something closer to “eternity”—a span of time that has no beginning and no end at all, something that has always existed and always will.  Early Christian scholars were especially prone to translating the word like this, as they felt that describing God as “eternal” or “everlasting” made much more sense than simply saying He had been around for a very long time.  This, of course, led to thousands of years of argument about the true nature of hell as it is described in the New Testament—are evil people really damned to spend eternity there?  Or simply a very, very long time?  It all depends on how you translate that one little word…”

“Methos,” Joe said warningly.

“Yes, Joe. Sorry.  Once a linguistics professor, always a linguistics professor.  But I’ll move on.  Although I’ll warn you now, translating ‘Kairos’ is even stickier.”  He touched the page.  “Like ‘Aionos’, ’Kairos’ too has been subject to more than one translation over the centuries.  When Aristotle first used it in his “Rhetoric” he was describing the quality of ideal timing in speech making.  He understood that simply making great arguments wasn’t enough…you also had to give your speech at the right moment, taking into account recent events as well as the current cultural and political climate, for your words to reach their full potential.  So ‘Kairos’ then meant…an ideal moment.  One that must be seized before it passes, lest the opportunity it contains be forever lost.  And many people still exclusively translate it that way.” Alex sighed.  “But once again, early biblical scholars found a different meaning.  To them, ‘Kairos’ took on a much more spiritual aspect.  It still meant a special moment, one full of potential that, if the right actions were performed, could create powerful change.  But the new connation was that God himself had created those moments in time.  So ‘Kairos” came to mean a special moment when God reached out to a particular human being, in order to change the course of the world.”

“Which definition did the author of this book intend?”

“It’s hard to say for sure, Pix.  But not too surprisingly, given its association with Kahvin, the writer seemed to favor the more religious connotations,” Alex answered.  “Aionos definitely seems to mean eternal here.  But here’s the crazy thing.  The word ‘Kairos’ is actually defined by this manuscript, early on within the text.  I’m not a hundred percent sure of my own translation of that definition—some of the words are quite faded, and I was reading the book under a solarplane reading lamp, after all.  But this book seems to explain Kairos as “the third kind of time.”  Not Kronos—clock-time—or Aionos—eternity—but ‘the place where Kronos and Aionos touch.’  Which does make a sort of sense, I suppose.  But is most definitely not a way I’ve ever seen it phrased before.”  Alex shrugged.  “In any event, the book seemed quite positive about one thing.  Whatever word for time it uses, all three kinds will be coming to an end.  And that, I’m afraid, is where it all starts to make even *less* sense.”

“Less sense?” Jobey inquired dryly.

“Yes,” Methos nodded.  “Obviously, I haven’t had time to do an exhaustive, word-by-word translation yet.  I will, once I’ve had a chance to sleep.  And to scan in a few of the more badly faded pages, so Minerva can adjust the contrast enough for me to read them more easily.  But as near as I can tell, the text quickly degenerates into your typical, pseudo-poetic prophetic babble.  There’s lots of veiled references to “many battles” and “six champions” and some kind of mysterious door that has to be opened.  Or possibly closed.  Or possibly never allowed to open in the first place—it’s more than a little vague.  Then there’s an entire page of what I’m forced to refer to as the medieval prophet’s version of New Math: “Two will become four that is already but two, as each two is really but one” and “three will become six that has always been but three, as each two is really but one”, and so on and so forth.  Which I’m sure probably meant something to someone at some point—the illuminations on those pages are especially detailed.  But I’m afraid it does absolutely nothing for me except to make me wonder what the original author was smoking when he wrote it.   And finally, there’s these.”  Alex carefully turned to the last few pages of the book, then turned each one slowly, so they could all get a look.

Milly found herself frowning.  On the last half dozen pages, the beautifully illustrated columns of Greek suddenly ceased.  There were no more words at all, in fact.  But the pages were covered with strange symbols, each page carrying a different variation of the same basic design: several slender lines all crossing at a central midpoint, each terminating in a simple, small circle.  One of them looked like this:

 

“They didn’t mean anything to me, either,” Duncan said.  “I told Cassandra so.  Over dessert.”

“Did you, Mac?”  Jobey had re-taken possession of the book from Alex and was turning the pages himself, staring at the emblems curiously.  “And what did she say back?”

Duncan shrugged.   “She just smiled at me.  ‘That’s because this is just the key,’ she said.  ‘And not even I can clearly see just where the door it opens leads.  I’ll have to talk Cassie into taking me back before I can find out for sure.  But I do know this.  The *key* to the key is something you will never find on your own—because it lies within Joe Dawson’s heart, and Methos’s mind.  You’ll find what you need with them.’” 

Jobey looked at him blankly.  “Sandra said that?”

The Highlander smiled tightly.  “Word for word,” he answered.  “Well, naturally, I protested that you were dead, Joe.  And she told me that you weren’t—you were just in retreat, and I would see you soon enough.  Then she thanked me very much for the meal, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and left—just walked out the door and disappeared into thin air.  I know; I chased after her, much to the displeasure of the maître’d. But when I reached the street, she was gone.” He smiled wanly. “So.  After I paid the check—and talked the restaurant’s manager out of calling the police, which took some time—I went home, took a chance, and sent an e-mail to Joe’s old address.  And now…” 

“Now, here we are,” Methos finished for him.  “But flattering as Sandra’s typically enigmatic parting words may be, I’m afraid my poor mind hasn’t got a clue as to what these symbols mean, Highlander.  They don’t look like any alphabet I’ve ever studied.  They could be some kind of code, I suppose.” He chuckled humorlessly.  “Or embroidery patterns.  Or diagrams for crop circles, for all I know.”

“No,” Milly interrupted, speaking without thinking.  “They’re maps.  Or parts of a map, anyway.”

***

She was instantly the center of attention.  Milly flushed a little, but quickly recovered.  “It’s an old cartographer’s trick,” she said.  “A way to indicate a secret location without people catching on.  You often find them drawn in the margins of old pirate’s maps from the 18th century.”

“I thought they looked familiar,” Duncan said, with growing excitement.  “That’s where I saw something like this before.  On the margins of a chart at sea.  I never knew…”  He cocked his head at Milly curiously.  “How do they work?  Can you explain?”

She shrugged.  “I think so,” she answered.  “It’s not like it’s a particularly difficult concept.  Basically, you take the center point—“ She pointed at the middle of one design—“and place it over a fixed point on the map.  A city, say, or an island, or some other important landmark.  Then you simply take a straight edge and draw a line from that point to whatever other place you want to indicate.  If you were careful, you could even copy the design onto another sheet and send it to a friend—and nobody else would ever be able to figure out which place the design indicated.  Unless he, too, knew the starting point and owned a copy of the very same map.”  

Joe was looked at her doubtfully.  “I don’t know, Pixie,” he said.  “This book is from the 14th century, not the 18th.  Do you really think Kavhin and his followers would have had maps accurate enough to use that technique on?” 

“The first Portolan Chart of the Mediterranean Sea dates back to 1290, Joe,” Methos answered for her.  “Which was accurate enough that you can still use it to navigate today.  And this *is* Kahvin the Holy we’re talking about. He sent his followers all over the world, and many brought back maps when they Returned.  Kahvin had some amazingly advanced ones in his collection even when I was there, back in 1235.  So the accuracy of the source map is not at issue.  As for Kahvin using this method to indicate a secret location…well.  It’s not uncommon for the same ‘secret’ idea to be forgotten and re-invented multiple times during the course of history.  Especially one as simple as Milly makes this one seem.”  He looked at her hopefully.  “Pix?  Do you think you could figure out what locations these diagrams are indicating?”

She bit down thoughtfully on her lip, an old habit she’d acquired in her teens when she needed to think hard about something and blot out the rest of the world.  “It’s quite a long shot,” she said.  “Honestly, I would have to say that it’s next to impossible without having the original map to reference.  But there’s a couple of extra details on these pages that might help us narrow things down.  Did you notice this?”  She touched the central line in the figure, lingering on the dot at its head.  “All the lines end in tiny circles—but this is the only circle that’s inked in.  I’m going to guess that it’s a compass rose, and that line points due North.  Which at least tells us which way the diagram should be orientated.  And see this?”  She indicated a small horizontal line, drawn in the bottom left hand corner of the page.  “It looks like an afterthought—but I noticed that there’s one on every page, and they are all exactly the same size.  I’m going to guess that these lines match up with the original map’s scale line.  Minerva?  Would you project a small ruler onto the table, please?  Marked in millimeters, I think.”

The computer did as asked.  Milly maneuvered the book underneath it so she could measure the line.  “29 millimeters,” she said with satisfaction.  “Just over a modern international inch…which doesn’t surprise me.  The inch *was* in use as a measurement of length in Western Europe then, but it wouldn’t be standardized for many centuries.  It was just defined as the width of an adult man’s thumb, or else the length of three grains of barley, laid end to end—“

“I know,” Alex murmured. “I was there.”  Jobey punched him lightly.

Milly couldn’t help a slight feeling of embarrassment at this timely reminder—yes, yes, of course Alex already knew.  Probably Duncan MacLeod and Jobey did, too.  But she didn’t let it slow her down.  “Well,” she said.  “It doesn’t really matter what this measurement was called or how the original mapmaker arrived at it.  What matters is that this length…29 millimeters…*means* something on this particular map.  29 millimeters may correspond to a mile in the real world, or a hundred miles, or something else altogether—there’s no way to know.  We can call the exact unit a ‘mystery’, if you like.  What matters is that the distances in these diagrams are all in proportion to each other.  See?”  She measured one of the lines radiating out from the center point.  “This location is roughly 3 and a half ‘mysteries’ north-northwest of the central location.  And this one—“ she measured again—“is just over one ‘mystery’ due south.  That helps us out a lot.”

“I don’t see how, Sprout.”  Jobey looked exactly as he had when Milly was eight and announced she was going to break the Guinness world record for standing on her head…like he really wanted to be encouraging, but just couldn’t quite bring himself to be.  “We still don’t know how big a ‘mystery’ is.  Or just where that central location is.  How can we figure anything out if we don’t know that?”

Milly smiled.  “That’s where a few educated guesses and one really powerful computer comes in,” she said.  “Say we guess that this center point is actually the Sanctuary island…not an unreasonable thing to hypothesize.  Then it’s simply a matter of asking Minerva to scan in all the diagrams and overlay them on a modern map with the Sanctuary at the center, and expand and shrink the map until all these other points line up with something significant.  We define ‘significant’ as something that might have been important to the Sanctuary’s residents when this book was compiled, so circa 1450 or so.  For instance, this line here—“ Milly pointed— “looks to me to be pointing just a few degrees south of due east.  That’s about the right direction for that circle to mean Paris.  If it is, then all of a sudden we do know just how long a ‘mystery’ is.  And can use it to calculate all the other points on the map.”

“And if that point isn’t Paris?”

“Then we get Minerva to run more simulations.  Perhaps hundreds of thousands of simulations if we need to, overlaying a modern world map with diagrams of different scales.  We’ll adjust for declivity, too, since the location of magnetic north changes over time. Eventually, one of two things will happen.  Either the points will eventually line up with something meaningful, or else we decide that our first assumption—that the Sanctuary is the central point—is wrong.  If so, then we move it to a different point and try again.  Rome, maybe.  Or Paris itself.  Or…well, you guys would all have a better idea than I of what locations Kahvin and his followers might have considered significant enough to base their navigation on.  Alex?  If you had some time to brainstorm, could you make me a list?” 

Alex nodded, already looking preoccupied.  Duncan looked at her, an odd combination of both hope and horror warring in his eyes. “Dr. Alfonso,” he said slowly.  “Do you really think you can do this? Really?”

“It’s Milly.  And honestly?”  She considered for a minute.  “I don’t know.  There’s so much essential data missing.  But I’ve had some success at solving similar problems.  I managed to crack two of those 18th century pirate ciphers while I was still in high school—and I didn’t have anything close to a computer of Minerva’s caliber to work with then.  So I think it’s worth giving it a try.  If nothing else, it will be fun.”  She caught the startled looks all three of the men were suddenly wearing, and had to fight back another flush, this one more of anger than embarrassment.  “Come now,” she said, more than a little bit testily.  “All three of you already knew that I was a map geek first class.  It shouldn’t come as any surprise that this is exactly the sort of puzzle I like to work on for fun.  There’s no need to look at me like I’m a big fat alien straight from the Planet Nerd.”

Alex smiled, though his eyes remained haunted.  “It’s not that which is making us stare, Pixie,” he said.  “Nerdiness in all its forms is highly appreciated within this room.  It’s simply the thought that there might be a chance of finding a solution that’s startled us, however slim a chance it may be.  I didn’t even consider…” He looked down at the book.  Then he looked up, briskly squaring his shoulders.  “All right, then.  Marching orders for the next few days.  I will scan the prophecy and begin making a more detailed translation.  Pixie, you will scan the diagrams and start Project Find the Cartographic Needle in the Global Haystack.  I hereby dub both Duncan and Joe your research assistants, to help you as you wish.  In the meantime, Joe…”

“I’ll keep everyone fed,” Joe finished.  “One round-the-clock pot of Grandma Dawson’s Irish Stew, coming up.  But before we really start assigning duties, I have a question.  Sprout?   How much of your day is this project going to take up?”

 “Most of it, at least to start,” Milly answered.  “It’ll take me a solid two or three days to get the simulation program up and running.   After that, though? Not too much.  It will mostly be a matter of letting Minerva do the hard work and then going over the data with Alex to see if any of the answers we get actually make sense.  Why?”

“Because I was hoping you’d be able to spend at least a part of each day working with Mac,” Jobey said.  He turned to Alex.  “Methos, Milly and I have been going over the island’s emergency procedures.  And she’s been a great student so far…but she could really use a few lessons in self-defense, as well as basic marksmanship and gun safety.  Maybe a little bit about swordsmanship, too.  Not that you and I couldn’t handle it between us…but Mac’s taught beginner classes in all three a lot more recently than either you or I.  I thought while he was here, we might as well take advantage of him.  If no one has any objections, that is?” 

There was a brief silence.  Milly shot a furtive glance at Duncan.  She was startled to see that the suggestion actually seemed to relax the Highlander somehow, made him seem much more comfortable than he’d been just a few short minutes before.  “I’d be honored,” he said, then shot an equally furtive, concerned glance at Milly.  “If Doctor Alphonso agrees, of course…”

“Milly,” she corrected. Again.  *If I’m reading this situation correctly, you just agreed to teach me how to kill people, Duncan MacLeod.  I think we can leave the formal titles behind, somehow.*  “And it sounds good to me.  I’ve never taken any kind of self-defense class, and I’d never so much as touched a gun before this week.”  She laughed a little self-consciously.  “I must admit that I still have an instinctive ‘ew, icky, don’t touch’ reaction whenever I see one.  But I’m smart enough to know that has to change.  I’m willing to work on it if you are.”

“What teacher could ask for more?” Duncan returned, with more than a small hint of humor.  “Tomorrow, then, Milly?  After breakfast?”

“After breakfast,” Milly agreed.  “Which means I’d better get started on Project Haystack now.  Alex, may I take the book to my office?  And do you want me to go ahead and have Minerva image the text as well as the diagrams?  Or would you rather do that yourself?”

“Better leave the text for me, Pix.  I may have to play a bit with Minerva before I figure out the best way to go about it.”

She nodded.  “Sounds good.  If I may, then…?”  She held out her hands for the book.  Alex closed it for her and started carefully re-wrapping it in its fabric covering, but she didn’t miss his hesitance.  “Alex.  Stop worrying,” she said.  “You taught me the basics of handling precious manuscripts yourself.  Back when I was still in elementary school.” 

“And the lesson has doubtlessly been reinforced by many other expert teachers since,” Alex agreed.  “But I really shouldn’t be surprised that your first lessons took so well, Pix.  After all, some precious books have *maps* in them.  My Pixie would never do anything to endanger a map.”  He finished wrapping the book and held it out to her.  “Go on, then.  You look as eager as a thoroughbred on a racetrack, right before the gate goes up.  Let me know when you’re finished with the imaging, so I can come get the manuscript.  Or if the hour is excessively late, just put it in my office, instead. I already know there’s no point in telling you not to stay up all night working on this.”

She grinned.  “None whatsoever.” 

“Good luck, sweetie,” Jobey said.  Milly took the book and left the room, mind already filling with plans for the task ahead.  Alex was right—she was as eager to get started as a racehorse was to run the track.  It just felt so amazingly good to actually have a *job* to do again.  Something she could contribute that no one else on the island could…. 

But when she’d crossed the great entrance hall and had started up the impressive stairs, she suddenly heard rapid footsteps behind her.  “Milly!”

Milly turned on her step. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was crossing the hall’s gleaming marble floor in a quite awkward, quite humorous sort of half-run half-hop.  It appeared to be the natural consequence of trying to hurry over a slippery marble floor and also attempting to remove something from the pocket of a very tight pair of jeans, all at the very same time.   He recovered himself quickly, though, regaining possession of both his hand and his balance with a grace that reminded Milly of an Olympic figure skater going on with his performance after a slightly off center triple Lutz.  Curiously, Milly turned and came down back down the stairs, stopping a step or two above the ground floor.  “Milly,” Duncan repeated.  “I am very sorry to delay you.  But if you’re anything like Methos…I suppose I should say like Alex…”

“It’s okay,” Milly reassured.  “I’ve gotten used to the fact that both Jobey and Alex have gone by many names.  You can call either of them whatever you want to in front of me.  Was there something you wanted?”

“Yes.”  He nodded. “The thing is, if you’re anything like Methos is when he’s eager to dive headfirst into a research project, then I probably won’t be seeing you again today.  And I wanted to give you these as soon as I could.”  He opened his hand and held it out to her. 

Milly frowned.  In the Highlander’s tanned, very calloused palm, there glinted two tiny pieces of gold, formed into a very familiar shape.   “Phi Beta Kappa keys?” Milly said curiously, not understanding.  And then abruptly she did, and her breath caught.  “Oh.  *Oh*.  Mine?” 

“Yes.” 

“I— wow.” Tentatively she reached out, touching one of the keys with her fingertip.  “I wasn’t expecting…I mean, I really don’t know what to say.”  An embarrassed smile quirked her lips.  “Except for ‘thank you’.  And I think a hearty ‘I’m sorry’ should be in there, too.  It was really very inappropriate of me, to have flung them at you the way I did.”

“No,” Duncan said softly, shaking his head.  “No, Milly. Not at all.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated.  “Trust me, Milly.  The only ‘inappropriate’ thing about that whole day was the way that I couldn’t tell you what you wanted to know.  I wanted to.  Truly I did.  But…well.  You understand now why I couldn’t.”  He eyed her solemnly.  “Don’t you?”

She flushed a little under the intensity of his scrutiny, but managed a heartfelt nod.  “Oh, yes.  I certainly do,” she said.  “Loving Alex has consequences, doesn’t it.  It tends to put one into all kinds of situations one wouldn’t choose of one’s accord.  Of course I understand why you couldn’t tell me the truth.  You had to keep him safe.”  Duncan nodded tightly.  Milly smiled.  “But it all worked out anyway.”

“Yes.”

“And now even my wandering keys have found their way home.”  Milly smiled at them fondly.  “Thank you, Duncan.  You’ve kept them safe for months. Not everyone would have.” 

And now Duncan looked angry.  Maybe even incensed.  “Well, of course they would,” he said.  “They couldn’t have done anything else.  Not knowing how much they must have meant…” She blinked up at him curiously, startled by his vehemence.  Duncan pulled back a little, looking ever so slightly embarrassed.  “Well,” he said awkwardly.  “As you say, they’re home now.  My job is done.” He carefully took her hand, holding her palm level as he gently poured the little keys into it. 

Milly felt the touch…way more than she should have.  She was suddenly very aware of just how close the Highlander was standing, as well as the warmth and pressure of each and every one of his fingertips against her hand.  Especially as he didn’t seem to be in particular hurry to let go.  “Well,” she said, with a horribly uncomfortable little laugh.  “I can certainly see how you’d be relived to finally get them off your hands.” And then a new thought occurred.  “Wait a minute.  You didn’t know that I’d be here on the island at all before you got here.  Why would you bring these with…” The answer appeared in Milly’s mind before she even full completed asking the question, and she flushed, the embarrassment she’d felt back in the kitchen returning in full force.  “Oh, of course. How silly of me.  You must have been planning to give them to Alex.”

“Ah.”  Well, there was one consolation.  If she was acting like a foolish self-conscious schoolgirl, at least Duncan MacLeod didn’t seem to be any better off.  “No, actually.  I wasn’t.  Planning to give them to Methos, I mean.” 

And now Milly was completely baffled.  “Then…why?”

Gently, carefully, he closed her fingers over the little bits of metal, still cradling her hand in his.  “Is it really so hard to believe that I was hoping I’d meet up with you again myself, one day?” 

Milly’s mouth dropped open.  Duncan met her gaze squarely, looking…well.  Definitely *not* looking embarrassed anymore.  No, not one iota.  Just direct and steady and utterly confident, in a way that made Milly’s heart stutter.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Milly,” he said.  “For our first lesson.  After breakfast?”

And she nodded, and he let go of her hand and walked away back across the hall, and somehow Milly managed to close her mouth and turn around and make her way up the rest of the stairs.  She was almost at the top when she realized that the metal of the Phi Beta Kappa keys was very warm against her palm.  Not cold, like he’d grabbed them out of his luggage in a hurry before running to catch up with her.  Warm.  Like they’d been in his pocket for hours, long enough to absorb his body heat.  Which meant…    

No.  He couldn’t have been carrying them in his pocket all this time, along with his wallet and whatever other essentials a four hundred year old Highland Scot found necessary to make it through a day.  Not since she’d first thrown them at him in New York.  Not every day, not just on the faint hope that one day he’d be able to return them to her.  He just couldn’t have. 

Could he?

Milly shot one last, long, utterly confused look backward down the stairs.  Then she squared her shoulders and resolutely went to work.


	5. You must ask

“All right, old man.  Out with it.”

Mr. Media Mogul’s obsession with house-wide soundproofing wasn’t just an advantage when it came to listening to music at high decibels, Methos reflected.  It also meant that, even with unpredictable guests in the house—and really, who could be more unpredictable than Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?—Methos and Joe could still have a private conversation in their bedroom, completely confident that they wouldn’t be overheard.  Not that Methos really needed to worry.  The guest bedroom they’d given Duncan was in their home’s opposite wing, about as far from the master suite as it was possible to get.  And it was extremely unlikely that the Highlander, even in the very worst throws of insomnia imaginable, would ever commit the unchivalrous sin of wandering into his hosts’ private suite unasked. 

But knowing that the walls were more than a foot thick and lined with multiple layers of special sound-deafening fiber was still a comfort.  Especially given the extremely difficult conversation he and Joe were about to have, the one Methos had known they must have from the moment he’d first met Joe’s eyes over Cassandra’s cursed book.  Still.  There was no point in making it *easy* for his husband.  Joe would think he was losing his touch.  “Hmmm?  What was that?” Methos called back, with calculated ingenuousness.  “Out with what, Joe?”

He was standing deep inside their truly ridiculously large closet, hanging up his old coat and sweater near the back.  Joe was already in bed, their luxuriant silk coverlet pulled up over his cybernetic feet.  Unlike the low-tech versions he’d worn for most of their marriage, Joe’s new legs did not need to be detached for sleep.  Methos was more than willing to put up with the feeling of cold toes occasionally brushing his in the night for the wonder of knowing that Joe would never again wake up in a panic, rendered completely helpless just because his prosthetics had fallen over where he couldn’t reach them from the bed.  *Oh, hell, let’s face it,* Methos thought with a smirk, pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head.  *I’m more than willing to put up with the more intentional touches, too…Joe saw my ancient foot fetish and raised it to a degree not even I could have anticipated.  All Joe has to do now is trail one chilly toe sensuously down my calf and I’m instantly hard.  It *is* a shame about the cold, though.  I’ll have to suggest developing a blood-temperature upgrade at the next Sandy Toes board meeting…I’m sure the spouses and significant others of amputees everywhere would line up to thank me…*  He asked Minerva to turn off the closet light and walked back into the bedroom, still tugging the t-shirt down into place and pasting his best innocent look on his face. 

Joe was not fooled.  “Out with whatever it is in that damned book that you didn’t want to share with Mac,” he answered.  He pulled down the covers on Methos’s side of the bed, patting the mattress invitingly.  “’Didn’t have time to make a word-by-word translation’, my ass.  I *know* you, Methos.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yeah.  I do.”  Joe nodded sagely.  “Oh, it was a pretty good show, I have to admit.  Despite the reputation you so desperately tried to cultivate at UNM, I know you can’t instantly read *every* language that was ever used on this benighted old planet of ours.  There’s a handful of languages out there that might slow you down.  A manuscript that length written in Old Persian might take you a week or two to translate, for instance. Or Minoan.  Or Cham. But Greek?  Methos, you *inhale* ancient Greek, read it even more fluently than you do modern English.  If you really did read that book on the plane, you would have had every word practically memorized before it so much as finished taxiing off the runway.”   Joe shook his head fondly.  “So.  Therefore, there’s something in the text you didn’t want Mac to know about.  _Quod erat demonstrandum_.”

Methos slid under the covers, taking a moment simply to savor the sweet feeling of again being in his own home, in bed with his husband.  “I missed you,” he said. 

Joe’s face softened.  “Yeah.  God, so did I.”  He pulled Methos in for a long kiss, the kind they hadn’t been able to indulge in so far with MacLeod around, the kind that made any homecoming worthwhile.  When they broke, Joe pressed his forehead to Methos’s.  “This was only the second time we’ve been apart since we moved here.  The first time you’ve been away since you went to get the Sprout.”

“I know.”

“And you were gone nearly twice as long as you were on that trip.  So I think I missed you…oh…about two hundred times as much.”  Methos smiled.  Joe kissed him again, quickly, then settled back into the pillows.  “But if you think I’m going to let that distract me from finding out what’s really going on…”

“Not even if I tell you how incredibly sexy you are when you speak in Latin clichés?” Joe just crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows expressively.  Methos grinned, then sobered.  “Sorry, Joe.  I meant to fill you in all along, the very first moment we had alone. I wasn’t trying to distract you by mentioning how much I’d missed you.  Honest.  It just…seemed like something that needed to be said.”

Joe didn’t answer.  But he uncrossed his arms and reached for Methos’s shoulder, giving it an appreciative little squeeze.  Methos covered the hand with his own and squeezed back, filled to the brim with the wonderful peace of being completely understood.  Then, with reluctance, he let go of both hand and serenity.  “As it happens, there are several pages in the manuscript that I wasn’t able to read,” he said.  “Pages I really do need more time to read and translate before I…well.  Before I do anything at all.  But it wasn’t Duncan I was really trying to keep in the dark, Joe.  It was Milly.”

“Sprout?”

“She knows enough about Immortality now for her to find the true contents of the book disturbing. The prophecy…it seems to foretell the Gathering, Joe.”

A bit to Methos’s chagrin—or then again, maybe not; Methos would much rather he and Joe be on the same page any day than preserve the ability to impress him with his dramatic flair—Joe didn’t seem the least bit startled by this.  He just nodded.  “I thought I caught the Greek word for ‘Gathering’ a couple times when I was reading over your shoulder,” he said.  “But even if I hadn’t, it still wouldn’t come as a surprise.  ‘Six shall become three shall become two shall become one—‘”

“’Three will become six that has always been but three, as each two is really but one’,” Methos corrected him.  “But I do see your point, Joe.  Either way, it’s a pretty good description of the way we Immortals are supposed to whittle ourselves down to the final One, isn’t it.”    

“Exactly.”  Joe nodded.  “Not to mention what that Immortal woman in New Mexico said, the one that Challenged you the same day we had to leave the Sprout.  She told us that Kahvin had left some kind of prophecy about the Gathering behind, one that said it was all going to happen in less than thirty years.  If this is the prophecy she was talking about…well.  It fits.”  He looked at Methos curiously.  “Does the text give a date?”

“It does.  At least, it gives a year. And much less ambiguously than religious prophecy generally does,” Methos answered.  “The final six champions are supposed to gather at an unspecified sacred place sometime during 2036, where they will become three, then two, then one.” He met his husband’s eyes levelly.  “So.  We have just under ten months left.”

Joe was quiet for a long moment.  “Just because something is written down, that doesn’t make it true,” he said at last.  “Even if it *was* written down more than five centuries ago.”

“True.”

“All it really means is that one certified lunatic by the name of Kahvin the Holy got sloshed on some particularly funky herb-infused wine one night, and picked some random year out of the air.  And a bunch of his equally sloshed baby lunatics believed in it.”

“Also true.”

“But you’re worried anyway.” A searching gaze.  “Why?”

“I—don’t know.”  Methos’s hands twisted on the bedspread.  “I shouldn’t be.  As you say, all that’s happened is that Kahvin pulled some random year out of the air and a bunch of his followers believed in it.  I should be relieved that at least we finally know *why* we’ve had such a hard time with those damnable Token Bearers over the last few decades.  And we do, Joe; I really believe that this prophecy is the cause of all the trouble.  The final two champions aren’t given names, but it’s pretty obvious why the Token Bearers would think the text is describing Duncan and me.  One is referred to repeatedly as “He Who Comes from the High Land”.  The other is called both ‘the Librarian’ and ‘the Eldest, the Oldest of the Old’.  Remember, New Mexico Woman said they weren’t one hundred percent sure of my identity until they heard you speak my name…but hearing you call me Methos made them put it together.  Obviously, any Watcher worth her salt would have instantly known that Methos is the oldest Immortal of them all.”  His mouth tightened grimly.  “I even think I now know why those mortals killed Nick.”

Joe paled.  “Nick was in the prophecy?”

“It’s early in the text.  Unlike Duncan and me, it’s plain that Nick was never going to be one of the final two.  And there’s some confusion over gender, too, since the person in this passage is continually referred to as a she, not a he.  But one thing is pretty clear.  At least one of the last six is supposed to be ‘an Immortal’s mortal beloved’ who ‘carries and will be carried by the love and power of the thief’.”  Very vague, certainly.  But…”

“It’s still close enough that at least one faction of loonies could have thought it had to be Nick,” Joe said dully.  “And been willing to kill him early, so his power didn’t come to you or Mac.  But, Methos…”  Joe suddenly looked frightened.  “That last bit.  That ‘carries and will be carried’ bit.  Only you and I and Amanda know that Nick willingly surrendered his Quickening to Amanda, so they could stay together without conflict. The Watchers don’t know.   Hell, not even *Mac* knows.  So how…”

“How did Kahvin, who gave his head to the Kurgan more than four centuries before Nick Wolfe was even born, know?”  Methos finished for him. “I don’t know, Joe.  Like you, my common sense is telling me that he didn’t.  That the whole thing is nothing more than a particularly vivid, drug-induced dream.  But…” He sighed.  “But both of us have known Cassie.  And Sandra.  And seen demons and magic the rest of the world no longer has any cause to believe in.  And so I’m beginning to wonder if Kahvin, like Cassie, could read further ahead in the Great Play than any of us have ever guessed.”  Methos stared bleakly out their vast bedroom window.  He was no longer seeing the dark starry island night, but instead a sandy beach reddened with blood, and hearing echoing screams.  “It would explain so much, you see.  Why Kahvin was willing to let me live so long within the Sanctuary without making me take vows.  Why, on that final day, he let me leave without a fight, and without even seeming terribly surprised.  God, Joe.  It might even explain why an otherwise seemingly moral man would take so many heads, and why his followers all went to their deaths with so much damn *joy*.  Why…why Bright Sky did. If she thought…if she *knew*…that it was all leading up to this…” Methos dropped his head heavily into his palms.  “I just keep thinking: maybe this is why Kahvin did everything he did, up to and including giving his head to the Kurgan.  If he knew that the Kurgan would fall to Connor, who would fall to Mac, and Kahvin wanted all that power to go to him…”

“Methos,” Joe said quietly.  “Come back.  Leave the past where it is and come back here, now, to me.” 

With a great effort, Methos did.  He took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the gentle pressure of Joe’s hand.  When he was once again able to focus completely on the room, Jobey asked: “Do you think Mac was able to read the entire prophecy?”

“I think it’s likely,” Methos answered.  “He may not inhale ancient Greek the way I do—or even read it as well as the allegedly rusty Mr. Joe Dawson does, whilst sneaking peaks over his husband’s shoulder.  But he certainly knows enough to get the gist.  Or did you miss that whole ‘we’re never going to find out’ thing?”

“I didn’t miss it,” Joe answered.  “I didn’t take it the same way that you are, though.”

“And just how am I taking it, Joe?”

“With a grain of salt.  No, I take that back.  With a whole damn heaping *mountain* of salt.”  Startled, Methos let out a surprised chuckle.  Joe smirked.  “You probably have yourself convinced that Mac was lying to himself as much as you when he promised that.  Heroically denying the whole situation because the alternative… the idea that you and he really *are* the final two, and will have to fight to the death to determine the One before the year is out…is just too damn hard for his chivalric heart to wrap around.”

“That’s not…”  Methos started to argue.  Then he looked thoughtful.  “No, you’re right.  That’s pretty much exactly how I took it.”  Joe smirked again.  Methos shook his head.  “All right, Wise One.  How did *you* take it, then?”

“Without any salt at all,” Joe answered.  “I took it as the gospel truth, Methos.  As a solemn vow whose time had come.  A vow that should have been made decades ago, as far as I’m concerned.  And honestly?  I think it was.  But somehow the two of you only got around to saying it out loud tonight.”  He shook his head.  “For god’s sake, Methos.  Neither you nor Mac is ever going to draw a sword on the other in anything but practice ever again.  Neither of you wants to live in a world where the other one has died.  It would be too much like cutting off one of your own damned arms.  I know this.  Mac knows this.  You know it, too.  Or you would never have clasped his hand and made the same vow back.”  Joe waggled his eyebrows at Methos expressively.  “You’re only being stubborn about it now because you want to keep your options open.” 

“I—“ Once again, Methos stopped an automatic, argumentative retort from escaping his tongue.  He really should know better than to argue with his mate on such a topic.  Joe had better insight into his twisted old psyche’s particularly warped brand of logic than anyone who had ever lived, including Methos himself.  “You could be right.”

“Damn straight I’m right.”  Joe gave Methos an appraising glance.  “You know, once upon a time, during that awful time with the Horsemen in Seacouver…Mac asked me how I knew that you really were what you said you were.  Why I was so sure that you’d only ever used the Chronicles to stay away from Hunters, instead of using them to hunt heads yourself.  I didn’t have a good answer then.  Well, not one I could put into words.  I *did* know, in my gut.  And my heart.  But Mac didn’t need my heart.  He needed logic, and I didn’t have any.  But I do now.”  He chuckled sourly.  “You know that really old joke about the American CIA?  The one that goes, “How do we know the CIA didn’t have anything to do with planning the Kennedy assassination?”

Methos frowned.  “Um.  No, I don’t think I do.  What does any of this have to do with me and Mac, Joe?”

“Just bear with me.  The punch line is: ‘Well, the man is dead, isn’t he?’  Meaning that the CIA is so incompetent they couldn’t have done the deed even if they tried.  Well, the exact opposite is true of you.”  Joe smiled a feral smile.  “If we re-wrote the joke to ask ‘How do we know Methos never used the Chronicles to hunt heads?”  the answer would have to be: ‘Well, the Game’s not over yet, is it?”  Because, let’s face it.  If you really wanted to be the One…you would be by now.  That’s all there is to it.”  Joe looked at his husband in fond exasperation.  “You don’t want to be the One, Methos.  You’d be even lonelier than you already are.  So, if you’re having any second thoughts about that vow you made to Mac tonight…and you are; I know you’ve been telling yourself ever since that it really doesn’t count if you mentally had your fingers crossed behind your back, or some other such silly thing…it’s not because you want to take Mac’s head.  It’s because you still want to preserve the option of someday forcing him into taking yours.  Am I right?”

“Why do you even have to ask when you’re already so sure?”

“Well.”  For the first time Joe looked a trifle flustered.  “I’m *not* sure.  Not one hundred percent.”  He glanced at Methos curiously.  “But I’m right anyway.  Aren’t I?”

Methos sighed.  “As far as you’ve gone,” he said.  “You’re certainly right that I don’t want to be the One, Joe.  It’s more than bad enough merely being the Eldest…being the first of our kind.  Can you imagine being the last, as well?  With no more opponents, with all possibility of finding an end to life exhausted?  I have no idea just what this grand and glorious Prize is supposed to be.  But I can’t conceive of anything…anything at all…that would be worth that.  No, not even if the Prize turns out to be, as many Immortals have genuinely believed, the gift of mortality.  Just gaining the ability to age and die could never be worth living through so many, many other deaths.”  Joe nodded solemnly, reaching out to lace his fingers through Methos’s.  Methos let him for a moment, then squeezed them and pulled away.  “But.”

Joe groaned, letting his head fall back.  “Why did I know there was going to be a ‘but’?”  he asked the ceiling rhetorically.  His face became compassionate the instant he saw Methos’s wounded look.  “Sorry,” he apologized feelingly.  “Go on, Methos.  Tell me your ‘but’.”

“But I honestly don’t know what I would do if it ever really got down to two,” Methos answered.  “If Mac and I really were the only ones left, and you were…I mean, if the mortal world had already ended, as the prophecy seems to suggest.  I might very well throw myself on Duncan’s sword, if that were the case.  Or, who knows. I might even fight to *win*.”  His voice became very bleak.  “I might find that I don’t have a choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There was another Immortal at the airport in Barbados, when I was on my way to get Duncan.  She Challenged me.  Or tried to.”

“Methos!”  Joe’s face went ghastly pale.  “You didn’t tell me that!”

“I didn’t have the chance before.  I’m telling you now,” Methos answered.  “Relax, Joe.  I wasn’t in any danger.  You know how efficient airport security is these days.  I was standing in line waiting to have the airport authorities inspect my sword.  The other Immortal was…maybe fifty people behind me in line, probably getting ready to do the exact same thing.  I’d sensed her earlier, but you know what those lines are like.  Once you’re in one, it’s pretty hard to do anything but keep moving forward, one slow, weary step at a time.  It wasn’t until I’d finished and stepped away from the counter that she finally caught sight of me.  And went absolutely berserk.  Pulled her own sword out of its packing case and just went for me, regardless of the people or the place or the armed guard standing less than ten feet away.”

“Oh.  My.  God.”

“Well, I won’t say that she didn’t give me a few bad moments, myself,” Methos answered, with a trace of humor.  “But as I said…airport security is always very efficient now, and this guard was no exception.  He sprayed her with Tritaxmatazine two, maybe three seconds total after she drew the sword.  Stopped her cold, long before she could really be a threat to me.  And long before anybody realized I was the one she was going for, thank heaven.   I simply took advantage of the confusion to lose myself in crowd.  And an hour later I was airborne, without a single worrying Presence to be felt on the entire plane.  But…the incident did make me think.”  He shook his head.  “Her face was horrific, Joe.  Like what Duncan said about Trent.  I have no idea who she was…but I don’t think even her best friend would have recognized her at that moment.  All she cared about was killing me.  Cared so much that she was willing to draw steel inside a busy airport terminal.  And that’s not the act of a sane Immortal, Joe.  It’s not the way the Game has ever been played.  At least, not until now.”

“Do you think she was a White Token Bearer?”

“I hope she was.  I am very, very afraid that she was not.”  Joe frowned.  Methos spread his hands.  “You heard what Duncan said about his last several Challenges, Joe.  They fought the way the token bearers have always fought…pure fury or pure seduction, no middle ground.  And yet none of them actually *had* a token on their bodies when he searched him.  Which…made me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“If this odd change in behavior might be part of the Gathering, too.”  Joe made a disgruntled sound and began shaking his head.  Methos raised a placating hand.  “Just hear me out, all right?  It’s a…well.  I’ll call it a theory.  It’s a theory that’s been around even longer than I have.  Quite possibly it’s been around as long as the Game itself.  I won’t dignify it as being anything *more* than a theory, because it’s such a logical thing to assume, you know someone would come up with the story eventually, and then pass it along without any proof.  If you stipulate that the Gathering is real and every Immortal everywhere has to fight in it…and at the same time you know for an absolute fact that a good portion of us would rather just sit the whole thing out…”

“Methos.”  Joe’s voice was understanding, but firm.  “You’re losing me, here.  What is this theory?”

“That when the Gathering really begins, we’ll no longer have a choice about whether we fight or not,” Methos answered.  “We simply *will* fight.  As instinctively as a snake striking out at a mouse—just as thoughtless, just as lethal.  There won’t be any free will left.”   He bit down painfully on his lip.  “And I am very afraid that that’s exactly the sort of behavior that Duncan and I have been running into.”

***

One of the very nicest things about being married to Joseph Dawson was this:  Joe knew how to think before reacting.  He did so now, neither panicking nor dismissing, simply thinking things through, weighing the evidence both for and against.  “Well,” he said at last.  “It’s certainly a theory, all right.  Have you mentioned it to Mac, yet?” 

“No.  I wanted to get your opinion first.  Because the whole thing does seem more than little preposterous, after all.”  He gave Joe a weak smile.  “You see, I always thought this theory was the Immortal version of the boogeyman, or any other story parents told their children to scare them into staying put and not straying from the family fire.  What better way to get your students to practice their sword drills than to make them believe there will eventually be a time when logic and strategy will go out a window, and all they’ll have left is strength?  Still.  As we both know, every legend has a few seeds of truth at its core…”

“We certainly do.  Seeing as how you have found your way into more than a few.”

“Exactly.”  Methos’s smile vanished.  “So.  You see why I’m worried.” 

“I do.  But I don’t think it’s time for either you or Mac to start selling tickets to ‘the final matchup’ just yet,” Joe said dryly.  “Methos.  We both keep a pretty close watch on the international news.  I’m pretty sure we’d have noticed if there’d suddenly been a rash of people fighting public duels that always ended with one opponent being decapitated.  The news goons would have had a field day coming up with a cute name for it.  ‘Going Guillotine’ instead of ‘Going Postal’, maybe.  Or some such.”

“Sadly true,” Methos agreed.  “And no, there hasn’t been.  I did some discrete searching from the hotel computer when I was laid over in Madrid.  But the theory doesn’t necessarily mean that the vast majority of Immortals would be compelled to fight each other, Joe.  It could just mean that they were compelled to fight the final two, who’d then be forced to take on all comers.  Namely, MacLeod and me.” He looked at Joe searchingly.  “Couldn’t it?”

“Some sort of mass homing instinct, you think?” Joe asked.  “Like you and Mac have some sort of…beacon…in your Quickenings, and every other Immortal in the world is reacting to it?”

“That’s the general idea, yes.”

“I don’t know, Methos.”  Joe looked very dissatisfied. “The Game has always been just a giant pyramid scam at heart.  Four immortals become two become one, just as that book of yours says.  Besides.  If the Gathering really did change the rules the way you’re thinking…wouldn’t it be logical to assume that the unlucky masses would be drawn to fight the One, not the Two?  You OR Mac, I mean.  Instead of you AND Mac.”

“Ah,” Methos answered.  His voice was very brittle.  “But that’s where the theory really starts to get interesting, Joe.”

“It does?”

“It does.”  Methos nodded, a catch in his throat.  “Because MacLeod and I…our Quickenings are no longer that distinct, Joe. Once upon a time, I surrendered my energy to him.  He in turn gave me some of his own.  And while I thought we’d gotten everything straightened out when our Quickenings blended in Bordeaux, I can’t say that I’ve ever felt entirely like my old self, either.  There have been changes.  Not ones that I’ve never wanted to think about too hard, but changes, nonetheless. And so it’s possible—even likely--that not everything made it back to its rightful place.”  He swallowed.  “So.  If we really are approaching the so-called End of Time, and part of that means there is some kind of beacon leading the Immortals of the world to battle the One… it doesn’t really matter if that One was originally meant to be Duncan or if it was meant to be me.  It could easily be both of us, now.”

***

Joe stayed quiet for a long, long time.  When he did finally speak, it was just to say a gentle: “Come here,” accompanied by an equally gentle out-stretching of his arms.  Methos obeyed the summons, making a hopeless tangle of the covers so he could lie with his head in his husband’s lap, closing his eyes so he could feel the familiar, comforting stroking of Joe’s hand over his hair.  “How long have you been worrying about this?” Joe asked.  “Since your close call at the airport?”

“Honestly?” Methos answered.  “No.  *That* just scared me shitless.  I didn’t start thinking Deep Thoughts about Double Quickenings and their possible effect on the Gathering until MacLeod shoved that damned book under my nose in New York.  Maybe four days now, altogether.”

“Long enough to carry such a thing on your own,” Joe said.  “Methos.  Is there anything in the actual prophecy itself that backs this up?”

“Apart from what I’ve already told you?  About the year for the Gathering being 2036, and the final two being an old, old librarian and a warrior from a high land?”  Methos shook his head.  “There may be something on those pages I haven’t read yet, but no, there’s nothing on the ones I have.  All the rest of this is mostly just the conjecture of my own, admittedly quite fertile and extremely paranoid, mind.”  He made a rueful face.  “And I will be the first to admit that ‘There Can Only Be Two!’ is hardly a war-cry to echo through the ages.  Still…”

“I don’t know,” Joe said thoughtfully.  “I like it a lot better than the original.  And I believe that if you asked Mac, he would, too.  I think that’s what that ‘solemn oath and vow’ you both took tonight really was about, Methos.  You both agreed that, to the best of your ability, you’d never find out which of you was stronger.  Maybe someday there will be a situation that’s beyond your control…but there’s no point in worrying about it if there is.  Instead, you two can put all the typical Immortal bullshit posturing behind you and put your heads together to figure out the rest of this mess.” 

“You make us sound like two adolescent boys battling over who should be the high school quarterback at halftime, when there’s a championship game waiting to be won.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not so sure that’s so far from the truth,” Joe answered.  “Methos.  There’s one thing I don’t understand.  What on earth was Sandra doing with the book in the first place, and why should she bring it to Mac?  It’s been so long since we’ve heard from either her or Cassie.  Why should either of them come back into our lives now?”

“Ah,” Methos said.  “Believe it or not, that’s the one thing in this situation that gives me some hope.”  He pushed himself up out of Joe’s lap, facing him with serious eyes.  “Once upon a time, I asked Cassie if she knew when the Gathering was going to happen.”

Joe was astonished.  “And she *answered* you?”

“More or less.  At least as much as she ever answers anything,” Methos answered.  “She told me that she did indeed know, but that I shouldn’t worry myself over it. In the first place, it wasn’t going to look anything like I thought it was going to look.  And in the second, it was still a long time away.  Even by my ‘rather unique definitions of long’.”  He shook his head.  “Cassie doesn’t lie, Joe. Evade—yes.  Tell only a tiny percentage of the entire story—certainly.  But what little she does say is always, always true.  And no matter what mental gymnastics I put myself through, I can’t imagine any circumstances under which Cassie would think I’d ever consider a mere forty years to be a ‘long time’.  A blink of the eye would be more like it.”

“Then Kahvin’s prophecy has to be wrong,” Joe said.  He sounded puzzled, but relieved.  “But then why would Sandra take Mac the book?  Surely she already knew it was all a bunch of crap.”

“I don’t know, Joe.  It’s possible she didn’t,” Methos said thoughtfully.  “Sandra isn’t anywhere near Cassie’s class when it comes to foretelling the future.  And I don’t think we can count on Cassie having told her, either.  Not only does Cassie not believe in telling people things they don’t need to know…she also once told me that she and Sandra would spend the later years of their relationship breaking up and getting back together again.  According to Mac, Sandra said something like that herself.  That she and Cassie had been separated for some time now, and she wanted to fix that, but she needed to give Duncan the prophecy first…”

“So Sandra may have been acting completely on her own,” Joe said.  “And she probably believed there’s something to it.  In which case, I guess I understand her showing up on Mac’s door with the book after all—naturally, she’d have figured out who the ‘warrior from the high land” was supposed to be.  I guess the only confusing part is why she told him to bring it us.  Why she thought you and me would be any better at interpreting it than she was.”

“That puzzled me, too,” Methos said.  “I could easily see Sandra telling MacLeod to get in touch with me…after all, the Eldest is pretty significantly mentioned, too.  But why tell Mac he had to bring it to both of us?  Why go so far as to tell him that you weren’t really dead? I wondered about that, all the way home.”

“Did you come up with any theories?”

“The best I could do on the plane was that Sandra was just…meddling.  Had somehow learned the truth about your ‘death’ in Miami from Cassie, and thought we’d left Mac in the dark for long enough. ” Methos folded his hands in his lap.  “But I think I see another answer now.  Sandra wasn’t sending the book to us, Joe.  She was sending it to Milly.”

Joe’s eyes widened.  “To the Sprout?  Why—oh.  Oh.”  He nodded slowly.  “Because of the maps.”

“Yes.”  Methos nodded.  “And that’s where I must admit to having been…less than strictly truthful, when I said those diagrams could have been anything, from crop circles to embroidery patterns.  The text made it clear enough that those patterns were the true ‘key’ referred to in the title.  They are supposed to lead to some sort of secret location, Joe.  A hidden battleground, one that has been apparently very well guarded for centuries.  But I had no idea just how they were supposed to work.  And I would have bet money that you didn’t, either…so quite honestly, I expected we’d never find out just where this place is supposed to be.  I thought both its nature and location would remain a conundrum forever, safely unsolvable and out of reach…”

“But Milly does know how the diagrams work,” Joe finished.  “And while it might take her a while to crack the case, I’d bet my last breath that she eventually will.  The only real question is whether it will take her a few weeks, or a few years, or something in between.”  Methos nodded glumly.  Joe eyed him speculatively.  “So what’s so scary about this place, Methos?  Why don’t you want her to find it?”

“Because, Joe.”  Methos looked down at his lap for a moment.  When he looked up, his eyes were soft with tears.  “This prophecy may or not be about the Gathering with a Big G…but it clearly foretells *some* kind of big Immortal battle.  One that MacLeod and I are apparently destined to have the starring roles in.  One important enough that if it *isn’t* fought, it just might bring all of Time itself to an abrupt, ugly end. The prophecy may not be correct, of course.  But Cassandra clearly thought it was, and it’s got just enough of the details right to make me wonder about the rest.  And if it is right?” He took a deep breath.  “Then our sweet, eager, brilliant little Pixie, the one who is currently spending her night slaving away over a hot mapping application just for the pure joy of practicing her art…she, simply by virtue of being who and what she is, is going to be the one who figures out just where this final battle is supposed to take place.  And thereby make it possible for it to happen at all.”

***

There are times when no touch, no word, no action great or small, can offer adequate comfort.  Joe was sensible enough not to even try.  He just sat still, offering his silence—and Methos drank it in, knowing that at least they were both in this together.  Finally, Joe said hesitantly…as if he knew even before he said the words that they were meaningless… “We could just ask her to stop.”

“We could,” Methos agreed.  “But you saw her, Joe.  She lit up like a lightning bug at the thought of putting her skills to use once again.    Telling her to quit now would feel like kicking a puppy.  Besides.”  He smiled ruefully.  “When I met her in Florida and told her that knowing the truth about me changed things, she reminded me that I had been the one to teach *her* to always seek after knowledge.  Because knowing was always better than not knowing…”

Joe snorted.  “Damn kids,” he said.  “Actually *remembering* the things you taught them, thirty years after the fact.  So irritating….”

“I’m glad you appreciate that,” Methos said, a trace of his normal humor returning.  “Still.  As hypocritical as that early life lesson of mine to the Pixie may had been…we both know there are plenty of things I’d rather not know, at all…”

“Not true,” Joe interrupted seriously.  “You *always* want to know things, Methos.  Always want to discover.  It’s only after you learn them that you sometimes decide to banish them to the furthest reaches of your subconscious.  Never before.”

Methos smiled faintly.  “That’s…quite possibly very true,” he agreed.  “But psychoanalyzing my ancient psyche really isn’t our highest priority right now, Joe.  My point is this: in this case, I really do think the tired old adage that knowledge is power holds true.  Once upon a time, someone knew where this mysterious location was.  And while it’s possible that it’s long since been forgotten and the only clues to it lie in this book, it’s also possible that someone—the Token Bearers, red, white, or both—still knows about it.  In which case, we would be doing ourselves a desperate disservice by not trying to discover it ourselves.  It’s always a bad idea to deny yourself knowledge your enemy already has.”    Methos frowned.  “However. I do *not* think we should tell the Pixie just what it is I suspect she’s trying to learn.  Just…in case something happens later.  And she’s tempted to blame herself.”

“You only suspect, Methos,” Joe said.  “You haven’t been able to read the whole manuscript yet, after all.  You don’t know for sure.”

“True.”

“And from the way the Sprout was talking…she’s not going to find an answer tonight.  It’ll be a while.  Time enough for you to finish your translation, and for all of us to put our heads together over it.  Figure out just what it really says, and what we want to do about it, before she finds the spot marked X.”  Faint smile.  “It might be more time than anyone thinks, if Mac does the job with her self-defense training that I know he can.  Milly will be much too sore and too tired to spend every night ‘slaving away over a hot mapping application.’”

“Also true,” Methos agreed.  “Although I do wish you’d come to me with that little idea first, Joe.  Or at least asked Milly.  And given her plenty of time to say ‘no’ in private, before dropping her into the deep end without a life jacket.”

“What?” Now Joe looked confused.  “But she needs to learn, Methos.  And Mac…”

“Is a very good teacher.  Yes, so you said.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I think he’s a very good teacher with some kinds of students.  Like those kids he gave all those free boxing lessons to in Seacouver.  Youngsters who needed to have a bit of their cockiness knocked out of them, before they could fathom that there was really something worth learning that they didn’t already know.  Mac was quite uniquely suited to doing the knocking.  He does very well with advanced martial arts students, too, ones who have already learned the proper respect and are ready to meet him at his own level.  And according to his Chronicle, he does quite well with academic topics, too.  Allegedly, those history classes he taught at Seacouver U were some of the best student-reviewed classes in the U’s history.” Methos gave a disdainful sniff.  “Although I always suspected that those reviews had less to do with Mac’s academic prowess then they did with Mac’s looks, and the free-flowing nature of adolescent hormones…”

“Ahem,” Joe interrupted.  “I think your house has a few too many glass walls in it for you to be casting those sorts of stones, Professor Shirtless.  Free-flowing adolescent hormones had quite a bit to do with your own pedagogical success, you know.”

“Yes, well,” Methos said mildly.  “I can’t argue with you there, Joe.  So I won’t. But we would both do well to remember that Milly is not an adolescent, who can be enticed into making greater scholastic efforts by a handsome face.  In fact, the exact opposite might be true.”  He shook his head slowly.  “Maybe I’m wrong.  But nothing I know of Mac—from either his Chronicle or my own direct experience—suggests that he’s particularly skilled at teaching adult women.  Particularly not…” Methos hesitated, then decided that yes, he did need to say it aloud.  “Particularly not women with a history of especially violent abuse from men.”

Joe looked startled.  Then appalled.  Then…thoughtful.  Very thoughtful.  Methos noted the progression with approval.  Good.  Joe was starting to see it, now.  “There are reasons why I haven’t volunteered to teach Milly the basics of self-defense myself, you see,” he said quietly.  “It’s not that I hadn’t thought of it…I had.  Of course I had.  We both know that if she’s going to live her life with us she’s eventually going to need those skills.  And the world being what it is, they’d be helpful even if she does one day decide to go back to her relatively calm, peaceful campus life as Doctor Alphonso.  Or Doctor whatever-new-name-she-picks.”  Joe nodded, looking preoccupied.  Methos gestured helplessly over the quilt.  “I’d love to teach her, Joe.  But I can’t think of any way to teach Milly even something as simple as how to break away from an assailant holding her by the wrists without…well.  Without holding her by the wrists.  Repeatedly.  And…we both know how touch-shy she is.”

“Downright skittish,” Jobey agreed.  “It took four months before she’d accept a good-morning hug from me without stiffening into a board.  And she’s never gotten to the point where she’ll accept one from you.”  His voice lowered.  “Even now, she still glances around like a caged animal whenever I walk into a room unexpectedly, making sure there’s an exit she can get to in a hurry.  And if I happen to stand in between her and the only escape route, sooner or later, she moves.  I don’t think she even knows she’s doing it.”

“No.  I’m pretty sure she doesn’t,” Methos agreed.  “It’s subconscious behavior, Joe.  Instinct reinforced by years of painful experience.  And I don’t want to call her attention to it.  Not unless I absolutely have to.  Because Milly clearly believes that she’s put her past behind her…and in most ways, she has.  She really, really has.  She doesn’t abuse food or alcohol or drugs.  She hasn’t deadened her emotions—she’s still capable of laughter and affection, can care for people and things beyond herself.  And while there’s a whole collection of interesting scars on her wrists, ones that make me think she had more than one episode of self-injury as a young woman, if not an outright suicide attempt or two…”

“Methos!”  Joe gasped.  “You didn’t…you never told me you suspected that!”

Oh.  “Sorry, Joe,” Methos said contritely.  “Doctor’s eyes.  It’s hard to turn them off.  I noticed Milly’s scars that first day in Miami, before we even left the cemetery.  But—as I was going to say—they are all quite old, now.  And Milly hasn’t done anything more self-destructive than go back for a fourth helping of your chili in all the time she’s been here.  Trust me.  I’ve been watching.  I’d have noticed, if she had.”  Joe nodded, looking slightly less worried, although he was still a long way from calm.  “So,” Methos continued.  “Whatever Milly had to do to survive whatever she had to survive in the past…she clearly did it, and moved on.  She’s *strong*, Joe.  My god.  Sometimes I don’t think either of us can ever truly appreciate just how strong.  These days, it’s a notable feat for any American foster kid to even graduate from high school.  And Milly didn’t just do that.  She also got her bachelor’s, and her master’s, and her PhD…succeeding in a world that can, in its way, be just as ruthlessly cutthroat as the Game.  I *never* want Milly to think that I don’t admire her.  That I don’t see her for the amazing woman she’s made of herself.”    His voice softened.  “But just because I see the strength, that doesn’t mean that I don’t see the lingering damage, too.  And I know that you see it, as well.”

 “I see it,” Joe agreed heavily.  “Every time I come into a room unexpectedly and startle her by mistake.  Or the movie we’re watching comes to a love scene and she suddenly has to use the bathroom.  Or she comes down to breakfast in yet another shapeless dress with her hair uncombed.”  He looked rueful.  “God, Methos.  Six months she’s been living here, and she hasn’t once asked if Paulo could fly her to Barbados to have her hair cut, or bought any new clothes besides those muumuus she got in the airport gift shop on your way down.  I suggested she might want to order some new sandals online once, and she looked at me as if I’d grown another head.  Now, you could say that I haven’t lived the sort of life that means I’ve learned a lot about women…and you’d be right.  But even I know that’s not normal.  Not for a girl as beautiful as our Sprout.”

Methos nodded.  He knew exactly what Joe meant.  Their Pixie had grown into a very beautiful woman, but she didn’t seem to know it.  Which really wasn’t that great a surprise.  Even if Milly hadn’t been raised in a culture that prized white, blond, and thin to the exclusion of any other type of beauty, she’d been hurt enough by the late unlamented Mr. Smith to want nothing to do with her many physical attractions, let alone the effect they could have on others.  Nonetheless, those attractions were there:  in the generous curves she rather futilely dressed to hide, in the cheerfully rounded cheeks and sparkling eyes, in the milk-white teeth and toasted almond skin that were the millennia-old heritage of a people almost as old as humanity itself.  Diego Rivera, Methos sometimes though, would have crawled miles just to paint her.  Pablo Neruda would have written her a thousand love sonnets instead of just a hundred. And billions of less gifted mortals would doubtlessly have lined up to throw roses under her feet, had Milly ever given a hint that such tributes would be welcome…

But she never did, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why.   Even Paulo the Pilot’s gently gallant island attentions had made her shrink back fearfully at first, until Milly had finally clued in—rather quickly, Methos had to admit—that Paulo’s orientation meant there would never be any true intent behind them.  No, there could be no question about it: Milly might hide her wounds well, but they were most definitely still there.  And when Methos, like Joe, saw her flinch painfully away when he came unexpectedly into a room, sometimes only his extremely violent memories of Brian Smith’s last moments on earth kept him from exploding with rage… 

But those were not thoughts that would help anyone, particularly not Milly herself.  The only thing that would was a calm, clear assessment of the situation.  “She still hasn’t touched so much as a dollar from her drawing fund, either,” Methos said.  “Which means…”

“Some part of her doesn’t really believe it’s hers, yet,” Joe finished for him.  “Doesn’t trust us not to ask for it back.  Ah, *fuck*, Methos.”

“Or else she thinks that if she does spend any of it, someday we’ll expect her to do something to repay us,” Methos added.  “Perhaps even something sexual.”  Joe’s mouth literally dropped open at that, and he stared at Methos in horror.  Methos gave him a sad little shrug.  “Relax, Joe.  I don’t think she thinks so *consciously*.  If I asked her about it outright, she’d probably look just as horrified as you look right now.  Nonetheless, based on her life experiences…both with what we know happened to her with Mr. Smith, and what we can make some educated guesses about happened to her later…”

Joe swallowed.  “You think she was…hurt…again?  Later on?”

“I think the odds are very high,” Methos said bluntly.  “I hope not, Joe.  But the statistics are hard to argue with.  One in five American girls are sexually assaulted before they turn 18.  Those rates go way up for girls in state care.  I’m going to guess that Milly was never truly safe until she was of age and was finally able to move out on her own.  And if I’m right, and she was abused by one or more foster parents or siblings in addition to Brian Smith…well.  Thinking that *any* person who offers her money and a home has to have ulterior motives isn’t crazy, Joe.  It’s a perfectly logical assumption, given the circumstances.”  He frowned sadly.  “And it’s something I should have considered, before I set up that damn account for her in the first place.  I just… I wanted her to feel independent.  To know she didn’t have to ask us for every little thing.  And to know she could just buy a plane ticket and leave, if she wanted…”

“She does know that, Methos,” Joe said quietly.  “I’m sure she knows.”  Methos nodded glumly.  “Would you have done anything differently, if you had considered it first?” Joe asked.

“I—“  Methos thought.  “No.  Probably not.  She needed to have enough money not to feel trapped, Joe.  And I could be misinterpreting her refusal to spend it, too.  It might be…I don’t know.  As much about her trying to tell *us* she’s not a gold digger, simply here to take our money, as anything else.  It’s just—“ He sighed.  “It’s just…there are still times when I see such a deep fear in her eyes, and I know she doesn’t really trust us yet.  When she seems to just be standing back waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you or me to do something to hurt her.  I’m not upset about that.  It’s perfectly normal and should have been expected, given her past.  But I do think it’s something we need to take into consideration more, as we continue on.”  He looked Joe in the eyes.  “Which would be why I didn’t volunteer to teach her self-defense.  And why I’m not sure Mac should, either.”

Joe looked puzzled.  “But…if she’s feeling unsafe…wouldn’t self-defense training make her feel safer?  Help her learn a few things that will make it easier for her to defend herself?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”  Methos replied.  “It’s the classic mistake people make with rape survivors, Joe.  ‘Teach the poor things how to stand up for themselves, let them get out their inner anger by kicking a few dummies in the groin, and suddenly they’ll be able to walk down the street again as fearlessly as if nothing had ever happened.’  But it doesn’t work out that way.  In the first place, as I mentioned earlier, there’s no practical way to teach anyone how to defend against an attack *without attacking him or her*--making the survivor relive his or her previous experiences over and over again.  No matter how far along someone is in their healing mentally, the body remembers what it was like to be attacked in real life, and dealing with those memories can take a tremendous toll.  It’s not something to be undertaken lightly, Joe.  And suppose the survivor does manage to fight through, and actually learns something helpful?  *Then* he or she has to deal with all the anger and sometimes the internalized guilt over the fact that they didn’t know those things earlier.  In time to stop whatever happened from happening.”  Methos shook his head.  “I’m not saying that teaching survivors in general and Milly in particular isn’t a good idea.  In Milly’s case, it’s *necessary*.  Because sooner or later a rogue Watcher or a Token Bearer or just your average, run of the mill, head-happy Immortal *is* going to try to use her to get to me, and she needs to be ready when that happens.  But badly as she needs to learn, the lessons are still going to hurt.  A lot.  And strong as Milly is, I’m not sure she’ll be strong enough to cope with that hurt if she’s not feeling absolutely safe and secure everywhere else in her life.  And she isn’t feeling safe with us here.  Not yet.”

Joe studied him for a long time, so long that Methos began to wonder uncomfortably if he’d said too much.  But Joe just looked at him tenderly.  “I love you,” he said.

“I know.  I love you, too.  And we’re making this declaration now because…?”

“Because it’s so very, very obvious how much you love *her*,” Joe answered.  “And how scared you are of losing her.  And how much you think about and worry for her anyway.  Even though most of you is still convinced she’d be better off never having met us at all.”  Methos bit his lip and looked away.  It wasn’t something he could really argue. “What do you want me to do, then?” Joe asked gently.  “Should I go see if Mac’s still up, tell him to cancel tomorrow’s lesson? At least until we’ve had a chance to talk to Milly?”

“I—“ Methos hesitated, different thoughts and feeling battling within him.  At last, he shook his head.  “I—no.  Now that the date’s been made, we’ve got no right to step in and cancel it for her.  Milly will have to do that for herself, if she decides she wants to.  Needs to.”  He sighed.  “The best we can do is keep a close eye on her.  If she seems to be getting overwhelmed, maybe we can do something—but even then, I think the best we can do is take her aside and express our concerns privately.  We certainly don’t have a right to share any of her history with Mac.   That has to be Milly’s own call.”  A shrug.  “She has to live her own life, Joe.  As least as much as she’s able.”

A tiny smile was flirting around the edges of Joe’s lips.  “You sound like every parent of an adult child since the dawn of time,” he said.  “You’d think it would get *easier*, once they’re capable of living life completely on their own.  But it doesn’t, does it.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem to.  Not that I really have any other experience to base my opinion on.”  Methos favored his beloved with a weak smile of his own.  “This is the first time—ever—that a child I had even a small hand in raising has lived to reach adulthood, Joe.   It’s certainly the first time I’ve ever been able to tell one the truth about who and what I am.  I find that it makes her…makes *me*…” He stopped.

“It makes her very, very precious,” Joe finished.  “And that makes you even more of a worried, neurotically overprotective mess than every other father in history.  I know.  I feel exactly the same way.”  He patted Methos comfortingly on the arm.  “It’s okay, Methos.  We’ll keep an eye on her like you said, then talk to her if the lessons seem to be too much.  But I think we both might be surprised.  After all, the Sprout has dealt with every other challenge that’s come her way.  I don’t see why this one should be any different.”  He nodded at the ceiling.  “Ready for me to ask Minerva to turn out the lights?”

“Yes,” Methos agreed, and Joe did so, leaving them with only the sparkling crescent moon outside their window to light the darkness.  Methos slid back down under the covers and let Joe take him in his arms, ready to concentrate on whatever homecoming celebration Joe had in mind.  But before he did, Methos spared one moment to look at the moon and think a prayer to whoever or whatever might be listening.  He didn’t think it in words…at least, not in any words anyone in the modern world would recognize.  But roughly translated, the thought would have been this:  *Please, if anyone is out there…please see to it that knowing me really does end up doing her much more good than harm. Please?*  And then, much more ruefully: *And while you’re at it, I’d be grateful if you also gave her the internal strength and the sense of humor necessary to cope with MacLeod--better than I ever managed it, please.  Thank you.*

Then Joe’s lips found his in the darkness, and Methos gave up on thinking altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, the statistic Methos quotes in this chapter about the horrific prevalence of sexual assaults on American girls is true, at least as of the time I posted this story, in late 2016. Let's all take a moment to pray that by the time we reach 2036, it will be true no longer.


	6. for what you really want.

If Methos had but known it, his prayer was answered almost immediately.  Or maybe it had never truly been necessary in the first place.  Because Milly ended up thoroughly enjoying her first lesson with Duncan MacLeod.  And shortly, during the weeks that followed, found herself having the time of her life.

Milly would have been lying if she said she didn’t have a few feelings of trepidation, going to meet the intimidating Highlander in Alex’s gymnasium for the very first time.  She expected—well, no, that was half the reason for the trepidation: Milly really didn’t know what to expect.  From a few of the things she’d overheard Jobey saying in the past about Duncan being an extraordinarily harsh task master when it came to his Immortal students, Milly had half expected to find the gym transformed into a replica of an army boot camp, complete with ropes to climb and sandbags to crawl under.  Or if not that--because Alex definitely seemed to favor simplicity when it came to his workout equipment, and even Scottish ingenuity had to come up short sometimes--Milly expected to be put through the equivalent of basic training in terms of jumping jacks and sit-ups and sprints.  Since Milly’s entire “exercise program” of the last ten years had consisted entirely of the occasional restful weekend yoga class, she was definitely fearing a morning of physical torture unprecedented since…well, since she’d been a senior in college desperate to fulfill her physical education requirement before graduation, and the only option her schedule had permitted was a weight training class, one that existed mainly to bulk up the school’s notoriously aggressive lacrosse team during the off season.  God.  She’d spent the entire *semester* sore…

So it was with some definite apprehension that Milly pushed open the heavy metal doors that first morning, wondering what lay in store for her behind them.  And it was with definite relief that she discovered that Duncan’s plans for the day didn’t include any physical tortures at all.  He hadn’t even dressed to work out.  Apart from bare feet, he was pretty much wearing exactly the same outfit he’d worn the day before, although the jeans were black this time, and the poet’s shirt a beautiful deep blue.   This last made him look dressed up enough to make Milly seriously regret her own choice of outfit—an overlarge t-shirt she normally reserved for sleeping, and a pair of sweatpants borrowed from Jobey in anticipation of the day.  The sweatpants’ fit was….unfortunate, to say the least.  Milly had to cinch them in so tightly at the waist that the drawstring almost dangled to her knees, but even so the fabric still strained, uncomfortably tight, over her womanly hips.  Milly would never have worn the things at all, if her wardrobe had contained anything more than the hastily packed suits she’d originally taken to New York and the handful of gift-shop dresses she’d purchase on her way down.  She really didn’t own anything else even remotely appropriate…

Fortunately, if Duncan had noticed the embarrassing dichotomy in their fashion choices, he was far too polite to comment.  He’d simply looked up at her with what seemed a perfectly genuine, pleased-to-see her smile, and invited her to sit down on one of the workout mats.  There, he’d laid out half a dozen different handguns he’d borrowed from Alex’s vast collection.  The next two hours were spent in what amounted to a sophisticated version of show and tell, Duncan explaining the differences between a revolver, an automatic, and a semi-automatic, and telling her the names and relative merits of each individual model of firearm on the mat.  He also gave her a quick rundown on basic gun handling safety.

The show-and-tell quality relaxed Milly almost instantly.   Athletic pursuits such as Alex and doubtlessly Duncan pursued on a daily basis might have been beyond her, but an interactive lecture?  *That* Milly could handle.  She took lots of mental notes and asked lots of questions, and if the Highlander couldn’t quite suppress a smile once or twice at her ignorance, he also seemed pleased by how quickly she took all the new information in.  He assured her repeatedly that none of the guns before her were loaded, and showed her how to double check that fact for herself.  After which he encouraged her to handle them, simply picking them all up one at a time, looking them over, and putting them back down, just taking the time to get accustomed to the alien feel of a weapon in her hand. 

Finally, Duncan had Milly stand up and practice aiming, so he could critique her grip and her stance.  But the criticism didn’t feel harsh.  There were, Milly, thought, some impressive advantages in having a four-hundred-year-old teacher. Duncan was unfailingly supportive, interspersing his suggestions with funny little stories about all the times he’d taught similar lessons in the past, mostly to various bunches of raw recruits during his various wartime service.  By the time the wall clock informed her that three hours had gone by, Milly was feeling much more confident, and genuinely surprised that the time had flown so quickly.  “Okay,” Duncan said.  “Good job.  We’ve covered a lot today.  I have just one more challenge for you before I let you go.”  He picked up a box of cartridges and smiled at her, nodding at the gun they’d discovered fit Milly’s hand the best.  “Ready to try loading?”

Her first instinct was to smile back.  He was looking at her so attentively, his head slightly cocked and his brown eyes filled with a mischievous, ‘come on, go ahead and do it, I know you really want to’ expression that Milly suspected must have melted a thousand feminine hearts.  Milly started to reach for the cartridge box.  Then she felt herself freeze, the smile dropping instantly off her face. 

To Duncan’s credit, he noticed immediately.  “What is it?” he asked gently.

“It’s—just—um—bullets,” she said lamely, and felt herself flushing the second she heard herself.  *Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s Dr. Millicent Alphonso,* she thought.  *Top one percent of her class all the way through school—except for her Black Hole Year-- and proud winner of UNM’s Most Inspiring New Professor award.  Eloquent, isn’t she?*  But Duncan was waiting patiently, honest concern on his face, and Milly knew she owed him a better explanation.  “Sorry,” she apologized.  “I’ve been having fun so far, Duncan.  I really have.  You’re an excellent teacher, and your stories are great—I’ve been acting like I was in school again and you were teaching me how to use a new tablet, or a new drafting application, or some other such thing.  But actually loading a gun and firing it?  I know I have to—I know it’s necessary for me to learn.  But it just makes it so obvious what this little device—“ she hefted the small, surprisingly lightweight, extraordinarily well-engineered little pistol in her palm—“is actually for.  Namely, putting one of those…” she nodded at the cartridges… “into a warm, living body, quite probably a human one.  And that isn’t fun at all.”

“No,” Duncan agreed seriously.  “It isn’t.” Milly looked down at the floor, half biting down on her lip.  “But I wasn’t going to actually have you fire it today,” Duncan continued.  “I thought that could wait for a few days, when we started meeting at the firing range in the basement…”

“Hold on a minute.  There’s a firing range in the basement?”

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” Duncan said, looking amused.  “A very good one, too.  Joe showed it to me yesterday, after you’d gone to work on your program.  I thought he and Methos had built it so they could keep their skills in practice, but Joe said no, it was here when they moved in.  Apparently one of Mr. Media Mogul’s kids had dreams of becoming an Olympic marksman.  You didn’t know?”

“Duncan, I’ve lived here for more than six months, and I still sometimes need Minerva’s help to find the nearest bathroom.  In case you haven’t noticed, this place is huge,” Milly said wryly.  “No.  I didn’t know.  I think I was picturing you setting up a bunch of Alex’s old beer bottles on a fence somewhere when it came time to do actual target practice, like they do in all the old movies.”

“Well, that is a thought,” Duncan said, once again with that dancing twinkle in his eyes that Milly was beginning to realize meant he was suppressing a smile.  “But a bit messy, with all that broken glass.  Not to mention a little hard on any wildlife that might happen by.  No, I think we’ll stick with the firing range.”  His twinkle vanished.  “But, Milly.  Even if you never choose to fire a gun at all…which is entirely your choice to make…”

She laughed uncomfortably.  “Is it?”

“Yes,” Duncan said seriously.  “It is.” And she looked away again.  Because of course Duncan was right—it was.  Which didn’t make it easier, exactly.  But it did make it seem a little less overwhelming, maybe.  Knowing that it was something that wasn’t being forced on her, but something she was choosing for her own reasons.  “But even if you choose not to,” Duncan repeated, “you *live* in a house with guns, Milly.  Which is not something that’s going to change, not as long as you live with Joe and Methos.  And so it is useful to know something about the way they work.”  His mood lightened suddenly.  “Can I tell you a quick story?”

“Always.”

He seemed a little startled by the blanket permission, but let it go with another smile.  “This didn’t happen to me, but to a friend of mine, back in the 1980’s” he said.  “His name was Charlie DeSalvo.  Charlie was a retired Navy SEAL and a master martial artist, and also one of the finest people I’ve ever known…”

“I think I’ve heard Jobey mention him,” Milly interrupted, frowning as she tried to remember.  She was sure she’d seen that name written somewhere…oh.  Yes.  The Charlie DeSalvo Memorial Foundation had been high up on Alex’s “surprising endeavors” spreadsheet.  “I think Jobey and Alex still make regular donations to some kind of charity set up in his name.”

“Do they?”  A look of proud warmth filled the Highlander’s eyes.  “I didn’t know that.  But it makes sense.  I still do, too.  Joe and I set up that foundation together, after…after…” Duncan’s smile suddenly came crashing down. 

Milly found herself reaching out to him, laying one hand on his arm almost instinctively.  She didn’t know what Duncan was thinking about.  But she well knew for herself just what kind of minefield one’s memory could be, the unfair way a seemingly happy memory could suddenly lead you right into the middle of an equally painful one.  Duncan’s eyes flickered to her, filled with surprise and…something else.  Something that made Milly almost yank her hand away, as her entire being became flooded with what she suspected was going to become a very, very familiar type of embarrassment.  But Duncan just covered her hand with his for a bare half a second, pressing her fingers in silent thank you…and then pulled away.  “Well,” he said, resuming both his former cheer and his story in a determined manner. “Charlie wasn’t married, but he had several older sisters, all of whom married and started families quite young.  Which was lucky for me, or I’m sure Charlie would have made a much greater effort to fix me up with one.  I had a hard enough time staying out of the way of all his female friends and cousins as it was…”

She found herself smiling at Duncan’s wry tone.  “Goodness.  You make them sound like quite a plague,” she said.  “Were they all *that* bad looking?”

“No,” Duncan answered, shaking his head.  “Not at all.  But…I wasn’t in a place where I was ready for anything serious, Milly.  And it may have taken me a few centuries, but by then I’d learned that casual never works out well under those circumstances.  Not when there’s a friend you care about who cares about the lady involved, as well…”  Milly raised her eyebrows at that, somewhat amused by Duncan’s worldly lecturing tone, and it was his turn to flush with embarrassment.  “Anyway,” he said, shaking his head.  “I keep getting off track.  All I meant to say was that Charlie didn’t have any kids of his own.  But he dearly loved all of his nieces and nephews, who loved him right back.  And one night he got a call from a twelve-year-old niece of his who’d been babysitting across town.  She was scared nearly out of her mind, because one of the kids she’d been sitting for—age four, if I remember correctly—had found a handgun in his dad’s closet, and she’d caught him playing with it…”

“Oh. My.  God.”

“Exactly,” Duncan agreed.  “So naturally, Charlie drove over right away.  When he got there, the niece, the four-year-old, and his six-year-old sister were sitting outside the house on the front step… all three of them shaking like leaves.  The six-year-old was so scared she’d actually wet her pants.  Charlie said they were so frightened that they all stayed outside the house while he went to find the gun, as if they honestly expected it go off at any moment, or maybe blow up and kill them all.  But when Charlie did find it…the kids had left it in the middle of the closet floor…he discovered right away that the gun wasn’t loaded.”  His eyes sought Milly’s.  “They really hadn’t been in any danger at all.”

Milly considered this, her anger at the children’s plight warring with her desire to understand Duncan’s point.  “It still strikes me as a very frightening situation,” she said stiffly.  “I’m proud of that young lady—she got help and kept her charges out of harm’s way the best way she knew how.  And frankly, I want to inflict severe bodily damage on whatever idiot adult just left a gun in a closet for a four-year-old to find.”

“Of course.”  To Milly’s great surprise, Duncan laughed.  “And believe me, Charlie did just that.  Well, maybe not the severe bodily damage part.  But he definitely stuck around until the kids’ parents got home and gave them a talking to they never forgot.   And he was proud of his niece, too—took her out for dinner the next day all by herself as a reward.  Because, like you said, she knew when she was out of her depth and got help, which is a pretty great thing for any kid to do.  But here’s the thing.”  Duncan looked at Milly earnestly.  “The niece had never seen a gun before at all, except on TV.  And I think Charlie was secretly proud of that.  It meant that she was growing up a lot differently than he and his sisters had, in the Zone.  But when Charlie told me the story, he kept saying, sort of wistfully, how just two pieces of information—knowing how to tell if a gun was loaded, and how to unload it safely, if it was—could have saved all three children a lot of terror.”  And Duncan stopped talking, simply waiting for Milly to grasp his moral.

She did.  She didn’t *like* it much, but she did.   “’Knowledge is power,’” she quoted with a sigh.  “’It’s always better to know than to not know.’ ‘Don’t let wishful thinking stop you from finding out the way life really works, and preparing accordingly.’ Yes. I know.”  She held out her hand.  “Hand me those cartridges.”

Duncan did, explaining that all the ammunition he’d brought for her to practice with that day were blanks.  Not because he wasn’t more than willing to trust his Immortal life to her hands, as he informed her wryly, but because in his experience people who were very gun shy often felt more confident loading and unloading blanks for their first few attempts.  And Milly did feel slightly more confident.  She ended up loading and unloading all the guns in the collection at least twice before she left the gym. 

The next few days were spent on similar lessons with larger guns, as well as detailed instruction on how to disassemble and clean each one.  So, by the time Milly actually did meet Duncan in the astoundingly luxuriant firing range and finally loaded what had become her ‘favorite’ pistol with live ammunition, she was able to pull her hearing protection over her ears and fire the rounds into the target without flinching.  Duncan praised her steadiness and aim, telling her…with just enough surprise to make Milly feel pretty sure he was sincere, not just flattering her… that she was a natural, and would soon be a great shot.  And the frisson of pleasure Milly felt at the praise almost won out over the still-present horror that she was shooting a gun in the first place. 

By the time another week had gone by, Milly had almost come to look forward to her daily marksmanship practice, especially when Jobey and Alex started coming down, too, to join in friendly competitions. (Each day’s winner was free from a night of dishwashing duty—or rather, carry-the-dirty-dishes-to-the-kitchen-cupboards-and-tell-Minerva-to-start-working-on-them duty.   The score was appropriately handicapped so that even Milly had a chance at winning.)  Simply firing a gun no longer frightened Milly, and while it would be a while before she approached any of the men’s skill closely enough not to need that handicap, it *was* kind of fun, competing against them.  It was especially nice to be testing herself every day, and seeing how much her skills had improved…

The day she realized she wasn’t just *kind* of having fun, but was *actually* having fun, as she and Duncan took on Jobey and Alex in an extra-high-stakes double’s tournament—the losers had to make Sunday dinner for the winners--Milly had to take a couple hours off from her afternoon work on Project Haystack to go for a long walk by herself along the beach.  Duncan had been right.  Learning to shoot had entirely been Milly’s decision, and it was one that she couldn’t regret making.  Not when she knew that one day it could make the difference between being completely helpless and possibly being able to save Jobey’s, or even Alex’s, life. 

But it still didn’t seem right that she--a woman who had hated gun violence for most of her life with a holy passion, and who had made a point of supporting every single gun control law ever suggested after the horrendous UNM campus shooting of 2021--should be making a game out of daily target practice with her family.  There was a long moral distance between doing something out of grim necessity and having fun with it, after all.  And—Milly could see this happening, and it unnerved her the most-- what if someday it ceased to be fun, too?  What it firing a gun eventually became so *normal* that she felt nothing about it all, simply let it become another part of her daily life, like brushing her teeth? 

Could practicing to kill people ever become boring to her, like Alex’s long practice at severing heads had become to him?

Milly returned home after a stunning island sunset, sand thick in her sandals, still without having come to any peace.  Maybe she never would.  But she knew she was changing, becoming an entirely different person than she’d ever thought she would be. 

And when Duncan…who had fought valiantly at her side, but had been unable to win the contest against Jobey and Alex, even with Milly’s handicap…met her in the kitchen Sunday night, saying with a bright smile, “Joe says you’ve improved on his old chili recipe.  I’d love to learn how.  Why don’t you be my teacher tonight?”  and then uncomplainingly went to work chopping onions, teasing and laughing and in general just *being* with her with an effortless ease that made Milly’s heart smile even as her mind told her she was being a complete and utter idiot…Milly couldn’t find it in herself to regret the change.

***

It got harder, of course, both physically and mentally.  It didn’t take Duncan long to decide to add some physical training to their morning sessions.  The much dreaded army-style calisthenics finally made an appearance, along with an increasingly intense daily jog around the gym…although Duncan did at least agree to wait on these last for a few days, while Milly waited for her order of new sports bras to arrive.  (The conversation set new records for awkwardness, but after a few days of Milly gamely trying to do her best to run with both arms clasped over her chest, Duncan had blushingly conceded the necessity for the delay.  Apparently Milly’s need for stronger support was wildly obvious even to him. ) The bras, for the sake of time—internet orders from Brazil or the USA tended to take weeks to arrive--were purchased in Barbados by Paulo, and delivered to Milly with a surprising amount of discretion while they were alone in the kitchen together, though Paulo couldn’t resist giving her an approving whistle and wink when he handed the package over.  (Milly was incredibly grateful to find, when she finally opened the package and begun trying on her new acquisitions, that Paulo had not only managed to find her rather hard to find size, but had also confined himself to purchasing supportive models in solid black and grey.  She’d envisioned herself being forced to run in too-small lacy confections of day-glow orange or pink.)

But waiting the days necessary to procure adequate support was the only concession the Highlander ever made, especially when they finally moved beyond simple calisthenics to actual hand-to-hand combat.  Milly quickly discovered that Duncan was one of the most exacting teachers she’d ever known, one who expected absolute perfection from both himself and his student.  He clearly took her inexperience and the limits of her mortal body into account, but never, ever allowed *Milly* to do so…never allowed her to accept anything but perfection for herself, either.  And perhaps most difficult of all, unlike Jobey and Alex or most of Milly’s professors in school, words were not Duncan’s forte.  Especially not when it came to martial arts.  There were lots of concepts Duncan just seemed to know instinctively, deep down in the bone and soul where no language was required, and when Milly didn’t pick them up with same instinctive ease and was forced to ask for clarification, he genuinely struggled to find the words to explain.  Milly soon discovered that the best way to learn from Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was never to ask, but simply to watch, instead.  And in turn she had to let him watch her, as well.  Which was not always a comfortable experience at all.

Still. When she did…when she could let her self-consciousness and hesitance go, and was able to just be present and watch…Milly was amazed at what she saw.  Duncan truly was a master of his craft.  He had a focus, a stillness, a total dedication to every move, that Milly first witnessed with confusion.  And then with awe.  And finally with an insatiable greed, as some of Duncan’s mental discipline started rubbing off and she began to crave the same simplicity of purpose for herself.  “I think I understand,” Milly said one day, completely startled by the revelation, when Duncan patiently guided her through the same simple, beginner’s kata for what must have been the thousandth time…and for the first time it had really *clicked*, really felt a part of her breathing and skin.  “I think I finally do.”

“Understand what?” he asked, with one of the gentle smiles she was coming to love with her whole being.  “The form?”

“No.  Not the form.  You.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Game,” Milly elaborated.  “How it is you can do what you do over and over again, actually draw your sword and fight someone else to the death.  I didn’t understand, before.  I thought…I imagined that it would be so overwhelming.  That you’d be constantly watching out for the other person, fearing him, trying to anticipate his moves and planning ahead for yours.  But it’s not really like that, is it?”  She cocked her head to one side, looking curiously into his eyes.  “Instead, you just…let it happen.  Reach a still place inside, where nothing distracts you or even comes into your mind at all, except for each moment as it arrives.  There isn’t a battle—there isn’t even an opponent, not really.  There’s just *you*.  Am I right?”

He blinked at her, clearly startled.   And then his eyes went soft.  They were so full of loneliness and gratitude and astonished *love* that, years later, Milly would remember…and she’d ask Duncan if that was the moment he’d really fallen in love with *her*, the moment he had finally known for sure.  And he’d tell her no, he’d actually fallen much, much earlier than that.  It had happened back in New York, sometime between him first opening the door to find her on his stoop and her flinging her Phi Beta Kappa keys at his feet.  He’d just been too uncertain, frightened by the prophecy and unsure of his place with Methos and Joe, to risk telling her so.  And yes, he had been worried about Milly’s hideous history of abuse as well, and the possible damage calling attention to his attraction could do.  But that moment in the dojo was the moment that he finally knew he would risk it someday.  That he decided she was far too precious to let slip away.  “Yes,” he agreed simply.  “Yes.  That’s it exactly.”

And the two of them went back to silently practicing the form, side by side.

***

Eventually, there came a day when all of Milly’s newly learned philosophy and mental self-discipline failed her, when the burden of her past finally became too much.  It happened on a morning when Duncan was trying to teach her how to escape from a choke hold, and had, in consequence, spent the better part of an hour repeatedly wrapping his hands around her throat.  Later on, Milly would learn that this sort of traumatic trigger was exactly what Alex had been worried about.  But neither he nor Jobey had decided to share their concerns with her – and, when Milly did eventually find out, she was glad they hadn’t.  If she’d known they’d so perfectly anticipated her difficulties, she might have come to see them as inevitable.  And her battle against them would have been over before it began. 

As it was, Milly had felt a sick, sinking feeling in her gut the moment Duncan first asked her to put *her* hands around his neck in order to show her the move.  The feeling had slowly spread throughout her entire body, freezing her muscles and making it very, very difficult for Milly to comply, especially when it was time to switch roles and it was his turn to choke her.  But she’d managed to do pretty well anyway, escaping Duncan’s hold several times from both a standing and a sitting position.  It wasn’t until Duncan had nodded his approval and started teaching her the escape from a prone position, having her lie on her back on the mat while he knelt over her with a knee to each side of her waist and placed both his hands gently on her neck, that Milly suddenly found herself screaming.  And then, as Duncan drew back in blank dismay and she heard her own scream echoing around the gymnasium walls, Milly completely fell apart.  She began shaking, sobbing, completely overwhelmed by a pain she’d long since tried to bury but which was nevertheless deeply imprinted in her every cell. 

She was too blinded by her memories to truly see Duncan’s face, or the way he instantly scrambled off her, pulling her off the floor and into an awkward embrace in his lap.  But eventually his worried, anguished voice did penetrate her fog.  “It’s okay, Milly.  It’s now, not then.  It’s *now*,” he said, over and over again.  And when this only seemed to increase her tears he pulled her close, pressing her head into his shoulder.  “Milly. I’m so, so sorry.  I didn’t think.  I should never…But you were doing so well, and that escape is just the next thing to *learn*.  But it’s okay.  I’ve got you, and it’s okay.  It really is.”

It took Milly quite some time to get herself under control.  When she did, her terror was abruptly replaced by shame.  She pulled away, horribly aware that she had turned into a puffy-faced, snot-nosed mess—god, she didn’t even want to think about the state of Duncan’s lovely linen shirt where her face had touched it.  To be truthful, she really didn’t want to think about anything at all.  Her strongest urge was to run and hide in her room for a week.  And she might very well have done so, too, if it hadn’t been for Duncan’s gentle hand holding her back.  “I’m sorry,” she said, well aware that she owed the man some kind of explanation, even though she didn’t have the slightest idea where to even start.  “I—“

“It’s okay,” he said.  “I completely understand.”  And just as Milly was about to snort derisively at that—oh, he did, did he?  How could he, when God above and all his little angels knew that not even *Milly* completely understood?—Duncan abruptly proved that he did.  “He attacked you that way, didn’t he.  Brian Smith. When you were a child.”

Milly jerked back as if struck, her mouth open.  Duncan just kept looking at her steadily, his expression sad, but not horrified.  And that helped, somehow.  Not having to cope with his horror made her own much easier to bear.  “Him and…others, later on,” she confirmed, greatly relieved when Duncan *still* didn’t look horrified, just ever so slightly sadder.  “You know, then.  About Brian Smith.”  Duncan nodded.  “Who told you?”  Milly asked.  “Alex? Or Jobey?”

“Neither,” Duncan answered softly.  “Neither one has ever mentioned it to me at all.”

“Then--?”

“Methos was paying Amanda and Nick in 2011, to keep track of any mention of him and Joe on the internet or in the press.  Amanda called me, the moment the story of his and Joe’s deaths first hit the newspapers.  The three of us followed the murder investigation for months, even after Methos was finally able to contact us and let us know that he and Joe were still alive.  There was more than one story about Brian Smith and you.”

“I…see.”  Of course.  Milly had been protected from most of it at the time, but even so she’d known the story had been all over the local news for most of a year, and had even gone national for a time.  It could hardly be otherwise.  Her personal tragedy had contained enough sex and horror to titillate the masses for a very long time, after all.   One enterprising young news blogger had even broken into Milly’s therapist’s office and published the story he found in her file, graphically revealing her year of abuse at Smith’s hands to the world.  Fortunately the blogger…who believed that the police were purposefully under-investigating Alex and Jobey’s deaths because they were gay…was more interested in proving what a monster Brian Smith was than in simply increasing his blog traffic; he’d stopped short of publishing either Milly’s picture or her name.  This meant that when Milly had finally turned 18 and left the care of the state of New Mexico she really could start over, could use her own name and academic record without anyone knowing about her past.   Milly had silently thanked a god she only half believed in many times for that.  Because honestly, she didn’t see how she could have survived her young adulthood in any other way…

But now, there was a small consolation in knowing that the exposure—yes, even the blogger’s theft—meant that Milly didn’t have to explain anything to Duncan now.   And it was a gift too, knowing that it hadn’t been Jobey or Alex who had filled him in.  The last thing she needed now was to go through the trauma of trying to decide if telling Duncan about her past was an act of kindness, or simply another violation.  “Milly,” Duncan said now, examining her closely.  “It really is all right.”

“You think so?” 

“Yes.”  He nodded.  “That escape--it’s really not that important a move to learn.  With all the other escapes you already know plus a few more you’ll learn soon, you are unlikely to ever be in a position where you’ll need it.  We’ll move on to something else, tomorrow.  We never have to do this again.”

And now Milly was angry, a familiar red-hot clench in her abdomen that made her voice come out as a frightening hiss.  “God damn it to fucking *hell* we’ll do it again,” she said, so vehemently Duncan drew back.  “Again and again and again and *again*.  Until I know I’ve got it right.  And until my stupid subconscious mind or somatic memory or whatever the hell the damn shrinks have decided is the real cause of post-traumatic flashbacks this week knows it, too.  I am NOT going to let this stop me.” 

Duncan gulped audibly.  His expression of surprise and dismay was so pronounced it was almost comical.  Startled, Milly choked out a small laugh…and that was enough to break the tension inside her, though not in a good way.  Really, it was just enough to make her realize just how tired she was, how weary and sore in every muscle.  “But not until tomorrow,” Milly finished up dully.  “I admit, I could use a little time to…to put myself back together.  But I *will* do it.  This isn’t the first time that something from my past has gotten in the way of something I wanted to do in the present.  I always win through, in the end.”  Another bitter laugh.  “So you can wipe that expression of total terror off your face, Duncan MacLeod o’ the Clan MacLeod.  The next time we practice, I *will* have my mind right.  No hysterical screams or sobs to be heard.  I promise.”

He shook his head softly, slowly.  “You’re misreading me, Millicent Carolita Dido Gabriella Alphonso,” he said.  “Interpreting this map with the wrong scale.  This isn’t an expression of terror I’m wearing, at all.”

Milly frowned.  She’d had no idea that he knew all of her names.  “What is it, then?”

“Absolute admiration.”

Milly blinked. 

It literally felt like her mind had shut down for a moment.  Or maybe it was the world itself that had stopped…stopped, while she searched Duncan’s face, ruthlessly looking for any sign of condescension or pity.  But there was none to be found.  And while Milly was still reeling from that, the world re-started and Duncan moved closer, taking her hand in his.  It felt…strange.  But also very warm, and comforting, and safe.  “And you don’t have to have your ‘mind right’, if it isn’t,” he said.  “If you really do want to keep working on that escape, we’ll do it together.  Slowly.  Dealing with whatever happens, as it happens.”  His free hand fluttered up, hovered for a moment near Milly’s face as if he wanted to touch her cheek or stroke her hair.  Then he clearly thought the better of it, and returned his hand to his lap.  But his entire upper body sagged, slightly, curling inward over his heart.  “Oh, Milly,” he said softly, so softly she almost had to strain her ears to hear him.  “Haven’t you figured it out yet? How badly I *always* want you to feel safe with me?  How much I…I…”

And suddenly, there it was.  The thing that had been silently between them for weeks now, ever since Duncan had first set eyes on her in Alex and Jobey’s front hall.  There it was, finally fully formed and utterly laid bare, stripped of any possibility for uncertainty.  All it needed was for one or the other of them to figure out a way to put it into words.  And since words were not Duncan’s forte…Milly did it for him, as simply and honestly as she knew how.  “You’re in love with me,” she said.

“Yes.”  He nodded.  “And I think you’re in love with me, too. Even if it’s terrifying.  Am I right?”

“Yes.”

Strange that such a small and simple little word should carry so much meaning, should completely rearrange everything Milly thought she knew, both about herself and the world.  For his part, Duncan let out of breath of one hundred percent, totally unadulterated relief, and smiled widely as he lightly pressed her hand.  “Thank god,” he said, and began to move in for a kiss…then stopped himself, taking a good long look at her face.  “You don’t look happy,” he observed.

“Don’t I?”

“No.  Not even a little bit.”

“Oh.”  Milly considered that.  For some reason, her face—and the muscles necessary to control it--felt like they were buried under a hundred pounds of stone. “I think I am, you know.  Deep down.”

“And higher up?”

“Ah.”  She chuckled humorlessly.  “Well.  That’s where all the trouble starts.”

“Tell me.”

“All right.  I think the first thing boggling my mind is just…just the sheer impossibility of it all.  The amazing odds against us ever having met each other again at all, let along feeling…feeling like this.”  She sighed.  “Then, there’s the sad truth that those feelings could easily be an illusion of circumstance—we are fighting what basically amounts to a war, after all.  Not to mention that we’re the only two romantically unattached human beings within thousands of miles…”

“You mean Paulo the Pilot already has a steady boyfriend?  Damn.”

That did make Milly finally crack a smile, albeit a bit hesitantly.  “Not so far as I know,” she said. “But he is, as I’m sure you are well aware, already head over heels in love with Alex.”  Her smile disappeared, turned to intense sadness.   “And that’s where the real impossibility comes in.  Because I know that you are, too.”

Duncan shook his head solemnly.  “No.”

“No?” Milly laughed a brittle laugh.  “Don’t be stupid, Duncan.  *Everyone* falls in love with Alex sooner or later.  He’s that kind of man.  And besides.”  She took a deep breath.  “I know you two had an affair once.  Before I was born, I grant you, but still.  And despite the way you constantly argue, it’s obvious that you still have very deep feelings for each other.  Ones that are never going to go away.”

Duncan frowned.  He didn’t look upset, exactly.  But he did seem very curious.  “Did Methos tell you that?”

“Of course.”  Milly nodded.  “Well, maybe not the ‘deep feelings’ part.  For that I just had to use my own eyes.  But yes, Alex told me about your affair.  How he cheated on Jobey with you.”

“Why did he tell you that?”

“Because I asked, I think.” Milly ran her hand agitatedly through her already quite ridiculously disheveled hair.  “I’d remembered seeing the two of you kiss in the garden when I was a little girl, you see.  And Alex seems to have adopted a policy of ‘total honesty’ where I’m concerned.  I’m not sure quite why, really.  Sometimes I wish he hadn’t.  But when I ask him something directly, he always answers.”  She sighed.  “He did say that there were extenuating circumstances he had no intention of telling me about, so I didn’t ask anything further.  But I have a feeling that he’d even tell me about them, if I told him I really wanted to know.”

“Amazing,” Duncan murmured. “He’s thrown away the survival habits of a thousand lifetimes for you, then.”  He looked at her more curiously still, perhaps even wonderingly.  “Do you have any idea how special that makes you, Milly?”

She shrugged.  “Not really.  After all, he did it for Jobey, first.”

“True,” Duncan agreed.  “But still…” He shook his head for a moment, clearly lost in his thoughts.  “There *were* extenuating circumstances, Milly.  And you don’t have to ask Methos about them; I will tell you everything you want to know.  At least, I’ll try.  It’s a very long story, and I…I’ve honestly never tried to tell it to anyone before.    Connor knew most of it before he died, but I didn’t really have to *tell* him much. A lot of it he knew just by looking at my Quickening, and the rest he just figured out on his own. I’ll probably do a terrible job, Milly.  But for you, I’ll try.  If you’d like to listen?”

And so she listened, while Duncan slowly and hesitantly—no, no not hesitantly; that wasn’t quite right; it was more that he wanted to be careful to choose the right words than that he didn’t want to tell her at all—while Duncan slowly and carefully told her more about Immortal Quickenings and Challenges than Milly had ever thought to ask.  And then to tell her about himself and Methos, and the odd way their Quickenings had ended up becoming intertwined.  “I knew he was special,” Duncan said softly.  “From the very first moment I ever got close enough to sense his Presence.  It rang in my ears for what felt like hours, Milly.  I was completely overwhelmed by his age and his strength. It’s how I knew he was Methos, even though the first time I saw him he was sprawled on the floor with a Walkman and a six pack of beer, pretending to be as harmless as a mortal teenager.  And I’m not going to lie to you.  His power was incredible; I wanted to take it for my own.  Wanted it badly, the same way that a starving man wants a meal.  I always do, when I meet an Immortal who is older and stronger than I am.  It’s just part of what I am.  What we all are.”  Duncan shot Milly a quick glance, as if measuring her reaction.  Milly nodded—it was unsettling, yes, but no more so than anything else she’d learned about Immortality thus far-- and gestured for him to go on.  “But I could feel something else, too,” Duncan continued softly.  “A…a kind of light.  Something that was Methos’s alone.  I don’t know how to describe it better than that; I’d never felt anything like it before, and I doubt I ever will again.  But it made him special to me.  Precious.  Much too precious to lose.”  Duncan frowned.  “Maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t felt that way.  If I’d just listened to my first instincts and taken his head, the way both of our Quickenings wanted.  Because it wasn’t just me that wanted him, Milly.  His Quickening wanted me to take it, too.”

“Alex *wanted* you to take his head?”

“He was *tired*, Milly,” Duncan said firmly.  “Tired of killing, and tired of just plain living too, I think.  I know how hard that must be to for you to believe. The 'Alex Porter' you have always known loves life more than any other man I’ve ever met.  He loved it back then, too.  But one can love life and still know in one’s soul that it’s time to go.  I know that’s difficult to understand.  I didn’t understand it, either, not until…”  Duncan stopped suddenly, and Milly wondered what he’d been about to say. But Duncan continued before she could ask.  “Besides, Methos had already fallen in love with Joe, and Joe had rejected him,” he said.  “Or maybe they actually were together at that point. I never got all the details straight.  But even if they were, I know for *sure* that Joe definitely still hadn’t figured out how old he was, hadn’t yet realized that Methos was Methos. And I think in his typically illogical Methos-like way, Methos reasoned that if Joe really did love him, he would have.  I’m not saying that tipped the scales--but I think having his heart broken by Joe definitely contributed.  When I first met Methos, a large part of him had given up on life, Milly.  And the moment his Quickening sensed me…the first Immortal he’d met in centuries who was strong enough to truly make him surrender…”  Duncan clenched and unclenched his fists.  “Part of his Quickening actually left his body and joined mine.”

“Is that even possible? Without one of you taking the other’s head?” 

“It shouldn’t be,” Duncan said with a twisted smile.  “But with Methos, ordinary rules tend to go out the window.  And I found out later that it *had* happened before.  Connor once experienced something similar with his first Teacher, Juan Ramirez.  But I didn’t know that then.”  Duncan looked rueful.  “I didn’t know what had happened to Methos and me, Milly. I knew I felt very strange whenever Methos was around, and even stranger when he’d disappear, but…well.  In those days there was always some kind of crisis going on whenever he *was* around, something that demanded our full attention.  I might have gone for decades without ever figuring it out.”  Duncan saddened visibly.  “But then Kristin came to Seacouver.  And everything changed.”

Milly had to admit that she got a bit lost in the explanation at this point.  It all had something to do with a serial-killing, Immortal ex-girlfriend of Duncan’s that Alex had wanted to kill, or maybe had wanted Duncan to kill, or…Milly never did straighten out all the details.  The main point was this: the two men had a bad argument over the affair, one that had grown heated enough for Alex to draw steel.  And even though Alex hadn’t meant this as a serious Challenge, that is what the fight quickly became.  At the end of which, the truth became clear.  Not only was Duncan the stronger fighter, able to force Alex to his knees, he was stronger in every other way as well.  If Duncan did ever take Alex’s head, he would get *all* of him.  Not just his physical power.  Everything. 

“We—we Immortals—we never talk about it, but it truly doesn’t happen that way very often,” Duncan said softly.  “Most of us want to die so little that we never surrender ourselves completely.  We would rather condemn ourselves to oblivion than truly give our opponents everything we are.  Ramirez told Connor that his Teacher—Ramirez’s Teacher, I mean—once said that it hadn’t always been that way. Long, long ago, the Game was seen as a sacrament, not a competition.  One Immortal would surrender his head willingly to his successor when he felt in his heart his time had come, and his entire being would be passed on.  But for most of us, it hasn’t been that way for millennia.  And until I met Methos, for me, it never had.”  Duncan looked lost.  “All the battles I’d fought, all heads I’d taken…I almost never got enough of the other Immortals’ essences to even take on flashes of their memories, Milly.  And when I did, they were just that—flashes.  Little scraps of memory like photos in album, dead and easy enough to ignore.   That’s not what Methos was offering me then.  If I’d taken his head that day, I don’t think he would have truly died at all.  He would simply have become another part of me, whole and shining and…I don’t how to explain.  But it would have been priceless.  A priceless gift.”  A slight sheen of tears came into Duncan’s eyes.  “And I wanted it.  I did.  But I wanted him alive, breathing and walking beside me, even more.”

And so Alex had kept his head on his shoulders, which had almost led to an even greater tragedy.  “When Methos killed Kristin, his Quickening couldn’t absorb her,” Duncan said, his words striving hard to be matter-of-fact even though his voice was anything but.  “It kept trying to leave him to come to me.  And his body couldn’t handle that, Milly.  Thank god he was unconscious for most of the next few days; if he hadn’t been, I think the pain might have driven him out of his mind.  I did everything I could think of, and when nothing else seemed to work I burned some sage and went through an old ritual I’d learned from Little Deer’s people.  I created a circle around him with obsidian and river rock, asked Great Spirit to clear the circle of evil and turn it into a place of healing.  I didn’t really expect it to work.  But the next thing I knew…”  Duncan paused.  “Milly.  Has Methos ever talked to you about the Second Chorus?  Or has Joe?”

“No.  Neither one.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect Joe to know,” Duncan said.  “The Second Chorus is an old Immortal legend, passed down from Teacher to Student.  Connor told me about it when he was training me.  It’s…it’s said to be a kind of heavenly choir, one made up of every other Immortal who has ever lost his head.  A living Immortal is supposed to only hear the Chorus’s music once in his life…when he’s about to lose his own head.  The Chorus is supposed to sing out to welcome him.  It’s…I always thought it was just a fairy tale.  But when I was in the circle with Methos…”  He swallowed.  “When I finished my final prayer, Methos stopped breathing.  His pulse stopped and his body went cold.  His Presence had sounded erratic to me for days, quiet as a whisper one moment, then loud as a marching band the next. But at that moment, I couldn’t hear it at all.  All I could hear was this beautiful, beautiful Song…”  Duncan shook his head.  “I can’t describe that music, Milly.  But it was honestly the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.  And also the most frightening.  I felt like my ritual had opened a doorway, somehow, and the Second Chorus had come through.  They were going to take Methos to join them, even though his head was still attached.  So I…I did the only thing I could think of.  I kicked the healing stones out of the way and started doing CPR, yelling in between breaths that it wasn’t time yet, that I wasn’t going to let them take him.  And then…”  He stopped.

Milly laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.  This story was beyond anything she’d ever expected to hear, and she had no idea what she would make of any of it once Duncan was finished.  But she could feel the strength of Duncan’s emotion, and wanted to do anything she could to help him through it.  “And then?” she prompted softly.

“The CPR worked,” Duncan said, with a terrible smile.  “But not because I re-started his heart.  Because a part of *my* Quickening left me.  And became a part of his.”  Milly stared at him.  He shrugged helplessly.  “I know how it sounds,” he said.  “But it was like…you know how you light candles in church?  You take a narrow taper and light it from a bigger candle, than use that taper to light the candle in the rack?  That’s what I did, not that I realized it at the time.  It was all just instinct. I just...somehow I focused some of my energy into my hands and forced it into his chest as I did the CPR compressions, exactly the way you’d hold a lit taper against a dead candle’s wick. After a while, it caught.  It took time, but eventually Methos’s own flame began to burn strong.  The Song disappeared.  And all I could hear was Methos’s Presence, strong and steady once again.”  Duncan bent his head.  “It still took him a few days to recover consciousness.  But I knew he would, then.  Because we were connected.  Even more profoundly than we’d been before.”

And, as if some kind of inner dam had been breached, the rest of Duncan’s story came out in a rush, nothing held back.  How Alex had finally come back to consciousness with nine years missing from his memory, with no clue what had happened between himself and Duncan.  The way Duncan had…he squirmed a little as he admitted this…chosen not to tell him about their profoundly changed Quickenings, fearing that the rabidly independent Alex would hear the news and simply bolt to the ends of the earth.  About the extremely shaky romantic relationship they’d then attempted, neither one quite able to trust the other enough to live in peace, but still too connected to leave each other well enough alone.  About the coming of the Horsemen, the way learning about Methos’s bloody past had completely broken his heart.  And finally about Kronos and Silas’s deaths in Bordeaux, which had given him the opportunity to separate his and Methos’s connection for good... 

When he finished, an eerie silence descended on the gymnasium.  Milly rather felt like she had the day Alex had told him the true story of his past, sweaty and worn and tired in ways she hadn’t known it was possible to feel.  “Well,” she said at last.  “And to think I thought all the tension between you and Alex was simply the symptoms of a thirty-year-old love triangle gone bad.  I should have known all along that it was much, much more complicated.  At least now I finally understand why Jobey was able to forgive you both and still treat you like a son.  I guess I just have one question.”  She took a deep breath.  “Was it ever love that you and Alex felt for each other?  Or just…Immortal need?”

“I thought it was love,” Duncan answered unhesitatingly.  “For more than three years, _he was a part of me_ , Milly.  I was aware of him all the time.  Not what he was thinking or feeling.  That stayed as much a mystery to me as ever.  But…all I had to do was concentrate and I could feel the rhythm of his heart, even if he was halfway around the world.  It’s…a very hard thing, giving up that kind of closeness.  After the Double Quickening, when I gave his energy back to him, I felt so ridiculously *alone*….”  Duncan was quiet for a long moment, looking deeply upset. And if the answer to her question hadn’t been so vitally important to her, Milly would have reached out to comfort him again.  But she didn’t.  She needed to hear what Duncan had to say honestly.  And that meant letting him come up with the words on his own, without her interference.  “But eventually I realized that I always would have been alone, even if our Quickenings hadn’t separated,” he finally finished.  “Because--what he gave me?  The parts of himself he shared? It wasn’t really Methos, Milly.  It wasn’t his heart or his mind.  Those he’d already given irrevocably to Joe.  And even if he hadn’t…even if there had been something left over for me…”  A sigh.  “Loneliness isn’t love.  Just because I needed someone and he happened to be there didn’t mean we ever would have made it as a couple. As Methos himself has pointed out to me, repeatedly.”  He gave her a wry, regretful smile.  “One of the most irritating things about Methos is the way he tends to be right, especially when you least want him to be…”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Yes.”  Duncan nodded, smile disappearing as he spread his hands helplessly over his lap.  “I don’t know how to explain what I feel for Methos now, Milly.  He’ll always be special to me.  Even if you take out all the Quickening drama, we’ve known each other a long time, and been through things together that no one else on earth could ever understand.  And if he was ever truly in danger, I’d do anything—even give up my head—to keep him safe.”  Duncan shook his head in exasperation.  “But do you want to know the real truth?  We’re *brothers*, not soulmates.  Quite honestly, Methos drives me crazy most of the time.  We can never manage to go more than a day in each other’s company without an argument…”

“I’ve noticed that, too.”

“I know you have.  And believe it or not, we’ve both been on our good behavior, this trip.  Joe can tell you.”  Duncan looked at Milly earnestly.  “Methos and I don’t mesh, Milly.  We don’t fit.  He’s never been able to understand what I felt or where I was coming from—not the way you do, seemingly without any effort.  He certainly doesn’t make my heart lighter and my day brighter just by walking into a room.”  He reached out suddenly, thumb lightly brushing her cheek.  “That only happens with you.”

The touch was electric.  It zinged through Milly’s cheekbone like a hot bolt of lightning, racing with a tingle down the back of her spine and grounding itself promptly in her heart.  And yet, at the very same time, it wasn’t electric at all—it was also slow, and soft, and as gently warming a soft spring rain.  Safe.  Milly wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and savor it, let her heart ascend like a bubble rising in champagne.   But her mind couldn’t help but raise a few more objections.  “I’m mortal,” she breathed, heartbreak in the word. 

Duncan nodded.  With sadness, Milly thought.  But without a trace of reluctance or fear.  “Yes.”

“And…”  She took a long look down at her body, shaking her head.  “And much closer to forty than I am to thirty.  With grey in my hair and crow’s feet ‘round my eyes, and a body that…has spent the last two decades hanging out in classrooms and libraries, Duncan, not gymnasiums.  Whereas you are not only one of the greatest athletes who has ever walked the earth, but are also stunningly gorgeous to boot—handsome enough to have pretty much any man or woman you wanted.  Presidents, movie stars, models, anyone. I’m nowhere near your usual league.”

“Yes,” Duncan agreed.  “Nowhere near…” and said it with a inflection that made it very clear that, no matter what ‘league’ Duncan was used to playing in, he considered Milly to be far, far above it.  Milly flushed.  And then happiness was suddenly sparkling in his eyes, sweetly glowing and bright.  “Wait a minute. Let’s back up a step,” he said.  “Did you really just say that you think I’m handsome?”

“Well, of course I damn well do!” Milly answered, pounding on his shoulders ineffectually.  “I may be a bit nearsighted from a lifetime of squinting at maps, Duncan MacLeod, but I’m far from blind.  You’re so amazingly, unbelievably gorgeous that I could spend the rest of my life just staring at you.  That’s really, really not my point…” 

And suddenly he was laughing.  A genuine, honest, deep belly-laugh—one with enough teasing in it to make Milly flush more hotly still, but also with enough love in it to wrap around her like a blanket.   This time Milly *did* let herself savor it.  At least until one more thought occurred, and Milly’s formerly bubble-like heart came crashing down like a lead weight.  “Duncan…”

“Yes, Milly?”

It was so sweet, the way he said her name.  It made the next words even harder for Milly to choke out.  “You *are* gorgeous.  And I am deeply appreciative of that fact, believe me.  I could spend a lifetime just looking at you, as I said.  And do much more than look, too.  I’d like..I mean, I want…”  Just as he had earlier, her hand reached up with a sudden yearning to touch his face, only to drop impotently back down.  “But this is never going to work.” 

“Why not?”

“I don’t like sex.”

He fixed her with a Look.  One that was really hard to describe, actually.  But knowing and teasing and…might as well admit it, Millicent Dido Carolita Margaretta…really quite sexy, too.  As was the slightly earthy drawl he gave to his voice.  “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes…no…yes…well.”  Milly laughed uncertainly.  “Let’s just say that I’m a *lot* less sure than I was a few weeks ago, before I saw you in that white poet’s shirt.  But still.”  She sobered, and was relieved to see that he did as well, all traces of humor evaporating from his manner.  “I am not without my scars, Duncan.  Both visible and otherwise.  I had some health stuff happen in my late twenties that…complicated things.  And even before that…”  She shook her head.  “You saw what happened when you put your hands around my neck.  Trust me, that’s nothing compared to what happens when I actually try to be intimate with someone.  Nothing at all.”

He reached up to her, gently stroking a hanging lock behind her ear.  “Thought you said you didn’t let your past get in the way of things you wanted to do in your present,” he said quietly.

“I don’t, as a general rule.  But every rule has its exceptions.”  Frustrated, Milly moved his hand off her hair and deposited it back in his lap.  “Look, it’s not as though I haven’t tried,” she said.  “Maybe more than I should have, honestly.  Certainly one or two of my past lovers were not….were not women I was proud to have slept with, in the long run.  And even those who were…” She bit down on her lip, worrying it angrily, eyes cast down to the floor.  “It’s never been good for me, Duncan.  Never really been enjoyable.  And I’ve never had sex with a man.  Not…voluntarily.” 

She didn’t look up during the short silence that followed.  Didn’t want to see…whatever it was on his face.  But when Duncan spoke, his voice was gently humorous.  “Well, I don’t think I can stop being a man, Milly,” he said.  “Those sorts of operations just don’t seem to work for Immortals—we heal too quickly for the hormonal changes to really take.  I could always try cross-dressing, I suppose--I did once spend several months playing Kate in The Taming of the Shrew, complete with wig and dress.  But pretty much everyone agreed that the end result wasn’t attractive.  Downright comical, in fact.” 

Milly’s mouth dropped open, both at the unlikely mental image of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod in drag, and the even more unlikely fact that he would bring it up now.  “Duncan, I’m trying to be serious!”

“I know, Milly.”  He reached for her again…this time just for her hand, which he gently supported in both of his.  “I know.”  His chocolate eyes went soft.  “Do you want to be with me?”

For some reason, the question was the most erotic thing Milly had ever heard.  Maybe because nobody, not even any of her consensual partners, had ever asked it of her before.  At least not so plainly.  “Yes,” she said, barely suppressing a shudder of intense, quite frightening, desire.  “Of course I do.  But it’s not that simple…”

“I think it is.”  Duncan turned her hand in his, held it so her palm faced up.  “As far as it being enjoyable goes…that’s really just a matter of being patient, Milly.  Exploring, taking our time, experimenting until we figure out together what we both really want and need.  But just in case you’re still worried…”  He shifted his grip so he was supporting her hand with only one of his.  With the other, he softly stroked one finger down the inside of her arm, from her elbow to her wrist. “Do you think you could enjoy this?”

Milly closed her eyes.  The touch had been so gentle, really no weightier than a feather gliding down her skin.  But it sent a sweet thrill of pleasure dancing through her entire body anyway.  “Yes.”

Even with her eyes still closed, Milly somehow knew that he smiled.  She felt her arm being lifted, felt something warm and beautifully soft brush across the pulse point of her wrist—oh.  A kiss.  “And this?” Duncan asked.

“Yes.”

“And…”  He was touching her face again, cradling her cheek.  “This?”  Milly opened her eyes, saw that he had come very close…close enough that he could have rested his forehead against hers if he tilted his head just right.  He didn’t, however. He just stayed where he was, giving Milly a chance to get accustomed to his nearness.  Which was, Milly thought dimly, a very good thing, since this was normally the place where her damnable subconscious truly began to panic.  Not this time, though.  This time she just stayed in the moment, feeling the heat and strength of him, breathing in the wonderful scent of his skin and hair.  “Yes.”

“Then I think we’ll be just fine,” he said.  “Milly?  May I kiss you?”

“Yes *please*,” she breathed. 

And just like that, his lips were on hers…soft and gentle and oddly innocent.  Not really asking for anything, just sharing his softness, sharing his warmth.  But his arms were around her now, and his body was pressed against her front…and they fit together so well and the feelings that caused were so strong that Milly shuddered, feeling the kiss down to the very tips of her toes.  After a timeless time Duncan pulled back and looked down at her, the warmth of a thousand suns in his eyes.  “Oh yeah,” he said.  “We’re going to be *just* fine.”

And she laughed a little, and cried a little, too.  And eventually showed her whole-hearted agreement by kissing him back.


	7. Don't go back to sleep.

Methos was not having a good day.

Research, he reflected, had been much easier when he could do it in person.  Or even by internet, back in the days when he didn’t have to be so damned bloody careful to cover his every inquiry under layers of subterfuge, making sure no one could track even the most peripheral of questions back to the source.  Methos and Joe paid a small fortune every month for what was theoretically the quickest, most all-encompassing internet access available to a private citizen on earth, and that should have made Methos’s current project a breeze.  Instead he was proceeding with all the speed and dignity of a snail, making sure that he never requested more than two or three resources from the same library or collection, and using a different identity every time.  Methos heartily wished he could have had Amanda’s help in doing this—the Immortal Vixen was still refusing to answer her phone—but he didn’t really need her; he was confident enough in his own abilities to believe that no one would be able to pinpoint the island as his inquiries’ source.  Still, ensuring that took a great deal of time, and Methos found himself wishing sentimentally for the days when all it had taken to hack into the Watcher Chronicles was a Wi-Fi enabled laptop and the knowledge of a few obscure passwords he himself had secretly programmed into the system.  Or, barring that, for a good old-fashioned physical library, complete with card catalog and genuine paper books.  Books one could read in the privacy of the stacks, without anyone keeping track of just which ones you pulled off the shelf, or which pages inside them you consulted…

Well, there was no point in crying over spilt milk.  The Watcher Chronicles had been lost to him for nearly two decades, now, ever since the Watchers had re-programmed them from scratch back in 2018, leaving none of the antiquated “back doors” that Plex Earth had.  And while Methos still secretly mourned the death of the paper book, it couldn’t be denied that the modern way was more convenient.  This very day he’d read an early renaissance manuscript physically located in a museum in Rome, as well as a handful of fragile medieval scrolls that now lived in the permanent collection at the British Museum.  Both sources had been lovingly imaged in three dimensions by their respective caretakers, so that when Methos read them in cyberspace, it was almost like touching the real thing.  With cross-references and expertly made translations just a whispered request to Minerva away.  So, really, even with the limitations imposed by the necessity of so thoroughly hiding his tracks, it was Methos’s own fault that he hadn’t made more progress than he had.

Of course, it would have helped if he actually knew what he was looking for…

Methos sighed, dismissed his interface with an impatient gesture, and sank back dispiritedly into his office chair.  Joe’s faith in him had not been completely misplaced.  It had taken Methos less than three days to get a complete English translation of Cassandra’s manuscript he was happy with.  But it really hadn’t helped very much.  The formerly unreadable pages just contained more blather about that mysterious doorway that had to be opened….or closed.  Or opened and then transformed into some kind of bridge, as architecturally unlikely as that seemed.  The text was very hard to interpret, constantly repeating and referring back to itself in a highly disconcerting, circular fashion, and was extremely vague to boot.  What was this door?  Just what was it supposed to lead to?  Methos honestly couldn’t tell.  The one thing the text *was* clear on was that in order for any of these things to happen, ‘the greatest sacrifice’ had to be made…and made willingly.  The phrase “true willingness alone will open the door—and willingness alone will build that door into a bridge” was repeated a total of six times on the faded pages.  And each time, it was coupled with the assurance that, for its maker, this sacrifice “would be the best possible end.”

Methos found this assurance much more ominous than inspiring.

So he’d begun his travels into all the greater and smaller libraries and archives in cyberspace.  Since the prophecy book was clearly a copy of another, earlier manuscript, he’d started by searching for the original…or for any other copies, or even for references to it in other works that might throw some light onto its origins.  He’d found nothing.  Nothing at all.  So out of desperation, Methos had moved on to a deeper exploration of the book’s major three vocabulary words, and started searching for roughly contemporary works that featured the words Kronos, Kairos, and Aionos.  This promptly gave him the opposite problem: too many resources featured all three, and sifting through the mountain to find one that actually related to his present conundrum seemed an impossible task.  After several weeks of fruitless effort, Methos had been beginning to think that he should have given the title of “Project Haystack” to his research, instead of the Pixie’s. 

Or maybe it was his own fault.  Maybe--Joe’s faith in his intrepid intellectual curiosity to the contrary—some part of Methos simply didn’t want to know…

Well, at least today’s reading hadn’t been entirely in vain, even if it had left him with far more questions than answers.  Methos leaned back into his chair, rubbing his eyes—tired, in spite of his Immortality, from nearly twelve hours of squinting over faded medieval texts.  A soft chime filled the air, Minerva’s discrete way of getting his attention.  (Despite the fact that he and Joe had named Minerva after the very sentient—and very female-- computer in Heinlein’s Future History series, Methos sometimes persisted in imagining Minerva as an old-fashioned flesh-and-blood male butler, with this chime being her take on the butler’s traditional throat-clearing cough.)  “Yes?” Methos said.  

Minerva’s well-modulated tones filled the air, informing Methos that Joe had finished his afternoon swim and was currently standing outside Methos’s office door, requesting permission to enter if he wasn’t interrupting anything.  Methos gave permission gladly, and a moment later Joe was walking into the room, his hair still wet and his bare cybernetic feet leaving footprints on the carpet.  “Hey you,” Joe said, moving in close for his usual haven’t-seen-you-since-breakfast greeting kiss.  He stopped, though, a scant six inches away from Methos’s face.  “You’ve found something!”

“I don’t know.  Maybe,” Methos hedged.  “How did you know?”

“Easy.” Joe nodded at the desk, where a 3D version of the manuscript Methos had been studying lay displayed.  “For the last month, you’ve been hunched over that desk working in cyberspace every single time I’ve walked in, mumbling ‘just need to look up one more footnote’ whenever I try to talk you into coming up for air.  This is the first time I’ve ever seen you sitting back in your chair with your gauntlets off.  Therefore, you must have finally found something.  Something you needed to sit back and take some time think about.”  Joe pulled up a chair of his own and sat down.  “Tell me.”

“I’ve been reading Meritoles’ _Immortalia,_ Joe.”

“Meritoles?  *That* crackpot?”  Joe peered down at the crabbed lines of blurry Latin in the holo book on the desk, completely unimpressed.  “I think I did a paper on him once, back in my Academy days.  Yeah.  Yeah, now I remember.  14th century mortal mathematician and philosopher.  Wrote a bunch of books on various religious themes, including the _Immortalia_.  There’s a small contingent of Watchers who believed…still might, for all I know….that he actually knew something about Immortality.  But I read most of his books, in translation if not always in the original Latin, and I have to agree with majority who think he was just talking about the immortal nature of the soul.  That’s why the Watchers never made an effort to round up his books for the Archive after his death.  There’s nothing dangerous in them, nothing that would leak the secret to the world.”  Joe looked up curiously.  “So why are you reading it now?”

Methos grimaced.  “Well, certainly not for the pleasure of Meritoles’ writing style,” he said.  “The man had no idea how to organize his thoughts, or even how to write a sentence that didn’t ramble on for more than three pages. It’s hard going, Joe.  And may very well end up being a complete waste of effort.  Nevertheless, some of his vocabulary words are….interesting.”  Methos brushed his fingers over the ephemeral page-of-light.  “Kronos. Kairos.  And Aionos.”

Joe frowned.  “The three kinds of time in the prophecy,” he said.  “Hmmm.  What are you thinking, Methos?  Could Meritoles have known something about real Immortality, after all?  Could…” He paled.  “Do you think Kahvin and Meritoles might have known each other?”

“I seriously doubt it,” Methos answered.  “Much as it goes against the grain… I think I have to agree with that Watcher majority opinion on Meritoles.  Nothing in his writing suggests to me that he ever met a real Immortal, or even knew what one was.  But I think it’s more than possible, given the mania Kahvin had for collecting religious books, that Kahvin may very well have read Meritoles’ work at some point.  And adopted some of his philosophies for his own.”  Methos sat back in the chair, steepleing his fingers.  “Meritoles actually had some quite interesting theories about the nature of reality, you see.  He suggested that there were three kinds of time…”

“Yes, yes,” Joe said irritably.  “I’ve heard this part of the lecture before, professor.  Do you mind if we skip ahead to the new material?”

Methos smiled faintly.  “The ‘new material’ is in how Meritoles defined them,” he answered.  “Not so much by what they were, but by their…mutability.  And also by the fact that he saw all three not as aspects of time in *our* world, but as each making up a different world of their own.”  He held up his hand, started counting the worlds off on his fingers.  “Kronos, of course, is the world we live in…the world of regular clock time.  Where moments follow one after another in seamless, unbroken pattern, unmanipulable and immutable.  Aionos is the world of eternity, where everything has already happened or, perhaps more accurately, *is* happening all at the same time, equally unchangeable, unmanipulable and immutable.  Meritoles seemed to think that Aionos was the world where God lived…and that explained the seeming paradox of how He could truly be without beginning and end, when as we all know, everything here on Earth has both.  Meritoles also thought it explained why true miracles are so rare in our world, and why so many mortal prayers seemed to go unanswered.  In a world where everything has already happened, why should God be moved to act?  He already knows how the story ends and exactly what His role within it was.  Asking Him to change things is pointless if He already knows He didn’t.” Methos smiled grimly.  “Quite a heretical notion, really; I’m a bit surprised the Church allowed Meritoles to live into old age relatively in peace.  Surely they should have burned far more of his books than they actually did.  But does that description of God sound like anybody we know?”

“It sounds a bit like Cassie,” Joe said reluctantly.  “Unable to act to change the future because she already knows that she won’t.  But, Methos…”

Methos waved his hand.  “What’s really interesting is Meritoles’ definition of Kairos,” he said, forestalling more comment until he’d finished his lecture.  “As I’m sure you remember, many early Christian philosophers defined Kairos as a special moment, when God directly interacted with the world of Kronos.  However, Meritoles thought that Kairos was a third world unto itself.  A place that lay precisely in between eternity and the world we know.  Where time still flowed…but wildly, not in the predictable, measured cadences of Kronos.  And also where that flow—that ceaseless tide of time in one direction—could be manipulated.  Where cause did not always have to follow effect.  Where one could look ahead.  And even, perhaps, where one could reach back and change what has already happened.”

“Uh-huh.”  Joe looked skeptical.  “Sounds lovely.  I mean, I don’t think I’d want to *live* in that world full time—too unpredictable—but it sure would be a nice place to visit.  Especially the reaching back and being able to undo stuff in the past part.  How do I book my flight?”

Methos grinned.  “Well, believe it or not, Meritoles did think travel between the realms was possible.  He drew the most interesting diagram…” Methos slipped on a gauntlet long enough to manipulate the holo book, causing Minerva to turn several pages.  “Here we are.  Basically, Meritoles thinks the three worlds are like three layers of fabric in a stack…like a bed with three blankets, each one lying directly atop the next.  Kronos is the bottom layer, Aionos the top, Kairos in between.  And mostly they just lie side by side.  But it’s possible for one layer to wrinkle, stretching and distorting the other layers around it.  And it’s also possible for holes to form.  Whenever that happens, the other layers sag…and might even push through into the first.”  Methos’s grin evaporated. “Meritoles thought this was why magic and miracles *do* happen, when they do.  Why the bodies of some saints reputedly do not decay after death.  Why Sarah in the Old Testament was able to conceive a son, even though she was long past the age of childbearing.  Even how Jonah survived his sojourn in the belly of the whale.  They’d all stepped into little bubbles of Kairos, ones that had pushed their way into the fabric of our Kronos world.  Bubbles where the normal laws of time did not apply.  And…while I have a much narrower, not to mention far more skeptical, definition of the word ‘miracle’ then Meritoles does…” Methos looked bleakly at Joe.  “It’s not hard to see why Kahvin might have thought this theory was an explanation for our kind of Immortality, as well.”

Joe met his eyes.  “Do *you* think it’s an explanation, Methos?”

“I—“ He bent his head, running his fingers uneasily through his dark hair.  “I don’t know, Joe.  I’d given up long ago on ever finding a good reason to explain why we are the way we are.  But this theory *does* make a weird kind of sense.”  He shrugged a single shoulder.  “Cassie once told me, you see, that no Immortal on earth is ever really born at all.  We have no mothers, no fathers, no conception or gestation…we don’t follow the normal rules.  Instead we just…pop into existence as infants.  Not there one second, and there the next.” He looked at Joe searchingly.  “What if we’re really citizens of another realm?  Not an alien planet or a parallel dimension…but simply of a different kind of time?  What if Immortals are made up of little pockets of Kairos—or even Aionos-- that somehow poked through into the Kronosian world?  It would explain why the laws of time don’t effect us…why we cannot die and cannot age…”

But Joe was shaking his head.  “But Immortals *are* affected by time, Methos,” he said.  “You do age, at least until your first death.  Or else the world would be full of a bunch of mewling Immortal infants.  And even after your first death, you’re still caught in the same lockstep progression of Kronos as the rest of us.  Not physically, I’ll grant you.  But mentally?  You have to take each second as it comes; you can’t peek ahead into the future or reach back to edit the past.  And those seconds do affect you. You learn, grow, change…”

“And eventually die,” Methos agreed.  “It just needs extreme measures to see that it takes.  Yes, I know.”  He slumped back into his chair.  “I didn’t say the theory explained everything, Joe.  I just…”  He stared out the window.  “There are moments, sometimes, during a Quickening …moments when it feels like time genuinely doesn’t seem to exist.  Sometimes a Quickening that felt like it took only seconds ends up having really taken days, when you return to the world.  And remember when I killed that last Token Bearer, right before we went to Miami? To me, it felt to me like a whole day and night had passed—I’d even seen the sun set and rise and set again. But when we finally found a clock that hadn’t exploded, it had only been minutes, instead.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”  Methos nodded.  “Now.  If you’d asked me about this phenomena yesterday, and somehow pinned me down firmly enough to make me actually hazard a guess, I’d have favored a simple, scientific, biological explanation. I would have guessed that Quickenings somehow unbalanced our brain chemistry enough to cause temporal hallucinations, not unlike certain classes of psychotropic drugs.  It certainly would explain the ecstasy…”  Methos said the last bit rather wistfully, and caught himself only when he saw Joe’s look of alarm.  “But now I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t something else altogether.  If maybe, at those moments, we’re actually shaking hands with home.  Touching Kairos…”

He hadn’t realized that Joe had stood and come to him until he felt the gentle pressure on his shoulder.  Methos found himself looking up into a very loving pair of mortal eyes.  “You really want to know, don’t you,” Joe said quietly.  “Why you’re different, the reasons behind it all.  You always have.”

“Always,” Methos agreed.  “At least as badly as I want to eat and breathe.”  He covered Joe’s hand with his own.  “Slightly less than I want to spend the rest of my existence with you.”

Joe’s eyes shone wetly for a moment.  “Well, hell, naturally,” he said humorously.  “It’s hard to imagine wanting *anything* as much as you’d want something as wonderful as that—“ but he wasn’t really joking, and they both knew it.  Methos gave his hand a quick squeeze and released him.  Joe cleared his throat and nodded toward the book.  “Does any of this really help?  With understanding the prophecy, I mean?”

“Truthfully?  No. Not really,” Methos answered.  “I thought it might, of course. Or I wouldn’t have spent the entire day combing through Meritoles’ abominable prose. And I think I do have a better understanding of what the prophecy writer actually meant by Kronos, Kairos, and Aionos then I did before.  But it doesn’t help me to interpret his or her predictions any more easily.”  He rubbed his eyes again.  “This whole thing is so damn frustrating, Joe.  It’s been more than two months since MacLeod showed up on our island with the prophecy, now.  And as near as I can tell, we still haven’t learned anything of value. Amanda is still completely incommunicado.  The Pixie’s been working overtime on those diagrams, but she’s still no closer to finding a solution.  She hasn’t been able to discover who was so obliging as to hide our little island from Plex Earth, either.  Ten weeks ago, *someone* deposited two very suspicious amounts of money into three of our charitable accounts…but no matter how many times I try to hack into the various bank’s security cameras, I can’t seem to figure out who it was. It’s *maddening*, Joe.”  He stared bleakly out the window, where the setting sun was just beginning to color the sky a brilliant gold.  “It’s like we’re trapped in a rabbit warren, and no matter how we twist and turn our way through the tunnels, we never get any closer to seeing daylight.  And…if the prophecy’s correct…the clock is ticking.”

Joe pursed his lips for a moment.  Then he stood up and held up his hands.  “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out for a walk.”  Joe nodded at the window.  “There’s a beautiful sunset due.  And we happen to own several miles of perfectly good, romantic beach to walk barefoot on and watch it from…something we haven’t done since before Mac arrived.  I think it’s about time we did it again, don’t you?” 

Methos frowned.  Truthfully, he really didn’t want to argue.  But he still found himself unable to stand without casting another guilty look at Meritoles’ book. 

Joe eyed him knowingly.  “Come on,” he repeated.  “You need a break.  I could *hear* the muscles in your shoulders pop when you rolled them just now.  It will all look clearer if you take the evening off, I promise.  And just in case you’re worried about the sunset being *too* romantic, and Duncan or Milly catching us canoodling on the beach…”

This startled a genuine smile out of Methos.  “’Canoodling?’” he repeated, eyebrow raised.  “Perhaps Kairos does exist in our world, after all.  Have we suddenly time-travelled back to the 19th century, Joe?”

His beloved’s smile was even more dazzling than the sun.  “Hopefully not,” he said.  “Or what I *really* had in mind would still be illegal in a lot of places.”  Methos grinned.  Joe tugged on his shirt insistently.  “I mean it, Methos.  You need a break.  And just in case you were worried about either of the kids getting a look at our, ah, recreational activities, you can rest assured that they’ll be busy.  They both volunteered for cooking duty tonight.  Milly’s going to teach Mac how to make her great-aunt Carolita’s famous tamales.”

Truth be told, Joe had had Methos at ‘sunset’, long before he’d mentioned any possible canoodling.  But Methos still made a show of sniffing disdainfully.  “’Kids’ indeed,” he said.  “Duncan is almost four hundred and fifty years old, Joe.  And why he insists on pretending he knows nothing at all about Mexican cooking around the Pixie is beyond me.  The man spend *decades* trekking through South America, after all.  Not to mention taking a degree in gourmet cooking from Le Cordon Blue in 1975.  If there’s anything Pix really can teach him, I’ll go hula-hooping naked on the roof.  Just as one of Pixie’s infamous imaging satellites is due to fly over.”  Joe made an odd sound, half cough, half laugh.  Methos stared at him.  “What?”

“Nothing,” Joe answered, a little smile playing around his lips.  “I suspect Mac has his reasons, that’s all.”  Methos continued to stare.  Joe shrugged.  “Come on,” he said.  “Let’s go enjoy that sunset.  Then we can pretend to be impressed by Mac’s new culinary skill, and afterwards we can maybe get to bed early for once.  Sound good?”

“You know it does.”

***

Milly was not, in fact, an idiot.  She’d caught on to the fact that Duncan was shamming his alleged kitchen inexperience the very first time they’d made a meal together, when he’d been able to tell the cilantro from the Italian parsley and the shallots from the garlic on sight, without so much as needing a quick sniff to double check.  If that hadn’t been enough to tip her off, his knife skills undoubtedly would have.  Ordinary Mexican cooking novices couldn’t peel, seed, and dice a hot habanero pepper into perfect 5 millimeter squares in less than thirty seconds, although Duncan’s chagrinned “Um.  I guess all the sword practice gives me an edge?” when she questioned him about it was almost worth all the effort Milly had put into keeping her face straight.  She’d kept playing along, though, simply because it was fun to be the one even nominally in control for once, and—yes—because she enjoyed the excuse to spend even more time at Duncan’s side.  And now…

And now it was more than nine weeks later, and Milly had known she loved him and that he loved her for almost three, and there was no longer any need for an excuse.  Well, except for Jobey and Alex, who Duncan had agreed could be left out of the secret of their couple-hood for a little while yet.  Milly wasn’t entirely sure just why she wanted to keep their new relationship a secret; it wasn’t like she really expected either man to object.  In fact, she strongly suspected that Jobey, at least, already knew and approved.  But it was sweet beyond sweet to keep it just between herself and Duncan for now—to feel like they were alone in a world that just contained the two of them.  And it was wonderful to have the chance to really get to know each other, too.  To figure out who ‘they’ were as a couple, before anyone else’s opinions or expectations could get in the way…

Milly flushed a little as some graphic thoughts about one or two of the things they’d already ‘figured out’ suddenly filled her head, causing her hands to still on the pepper she was chopping, lest she cut herself.  Thankfully, it was a sweet one, not a hot, or Milly was sure she would have done something stupid like absently rub her eyes and set off a hospital-worthy reaction long before now.  Duncan’s presence at her side had always been a distraction. Now that Milly knew exactly how beautiful his body was under his clothes, and just how good it felt to touch him, she was in constant danger of losing herself in erotic memory—or giving into the urge to create some new ones.  *God.  I’m worse than an infatuated schoolgirl,* she thought with an embarrassed squirm—a squirm which caused Duncan, carefully stirring refried beans on the stove, to pause and look over at her in concern.  “Okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” Milly agreed—and squirmed a little bit more when she caught Duncan’s worried frown and realized that a simple “okay” wasn’t going to cut it.  “Just, uh, thinking about our sex life,” she admitted.  “And taking a moment to marvel that I actually have a sex life again at all.  It’s…it’s been a really long time.”

The flash of a knowing smile her first words had brought into his face faded, replaced by a shy vulnerability that made her heart ache.  “Had it really been worth marveling over?” he asked quietly.

“God,” she said in a hush.  “You *know* it has…” And was forced to close her eyes, as her entire skin thrilled and her forearms and neck actually goose-pimpled with remembrance.  Then self-doubt chose that moment to rise up, and her eyes flew open again as she looked at him with equal concern.  “Has it been for you, though?  I know…I know we still haven’t…”

Hadn’t done anything penetrative, was what she meant.  In particular they hadn’t done anything that involved his penis being anywhere near to the inside of her vagina, an act which her poor brainwashed Western mind still persisted in considering to be “real” sex, despite years of lesbian relationships where the only penises involved had been made out of silicone, and where more than one of her partners had preferred to leave them out of the equation altogether.  Thus far, Milly and Duncan’s sexual activity had consisted almost entirely of above-waist kissing and a variety of below-waist gentle touch…although Milly *had* finally gotten up enough courage to explore Duncan’s cock with her mouth the night before.  Which she had found to be surprisingly intimate and fun, even if she’d lost her courage and stopped short of making him climax. 

Duncan hadn’t seemed to mind.  Didn’t seem to mind anything, actually—even when all Milly wanted was just to kiss for a while before they both fell asleep, or to lie within the strong, warm circle of his arm while she pleasured herself.  It had astonished her, the first time she’d brought herself to orgasm like that, with Duncan doing nothing except holding her and watching.  First, because the look in his eyes and his quietly murmured words of delight and encouragement had touched her more deeply than any of the full-out strap-on-aided fuckings from any of her former girlfriends ever had.  And second, because he honestly hadn’t seemed to want anything more, even though he’d been so aroused himself that he was able to finish himself with just two strokes of his own hand after he’d seen her safely back to earth.  Milly had grown up honestly believing that no man, no matter how remarkable he was outside the bedroom, was capable of controlling his instincts once he was that hard…

But Duncan had, and did, and Milly had thought he’d been as happy as she was…up until this very moment, when her old familiar inner demons of self-consciousness and doubt suddenly assailed her.  Duncan didn’t let it stay that way for long, though.  He just turned the heat down under the beans and came to her, picking up her hands and cradling them to his chest the same way he had just before their first kiss.  “No, we haven’t,” he said.  “And we won’t.  Not that or anything else you’re uncomfortable about.  Not until you’re really ready, and you ask me to.”  He smiled flirtatiously.  “Ask me *outside* of the bedroom, I mean, before we’ve started kissing or taken off any clothes.  It’s far too easy to get carried away.  To think you want things that you really wouldn’t, if you were in a…shall we say, a steadier…frame of mine.”

Milly felt her knees weaken a little, both from arousal and from sheer, simple relief.  “And you’re really okay with that?” she asked. “Even if I never ask?” 

He gave her a fond smile, the one she was rapidly beginning to learn meant he thought she was being an idiot, but loved her all the more because of it.  “Even if.”  He dropped his voice to a confiding whisper.  “In case you haven’t noticed, watching you shake apart as you make yourself come in my arms is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever done, Dr. Alphonso.  With anyone.  In more than four hundred years.” 

“Really?”

“Really.”  He smiled impishly.  “Not that I’m not looking forward to the day when you finally let me return a certain favor you did for me, last night.  It’s been driving me crazy, only being able to taste you on my fingers.  But I can wait for that, too.  I have plenty of time, after all.”  He kissed her hands.  “And even if you never say yes to that, I’ll still be happy.  You’ve taught me a lot during these last few weeks, Milly.  I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting to learn more.”

It was…immensely reassuring.  And flattering.  And true--Milly would have bet her immortal-with-a-small-i soul that Duncan was being sincere.  Still, some part of her made her raise a skeptical eyebrow.  “The same way I’ve been teaching you the art of Mexican cookery?”

“Ah, but you *have* been teaching me that,” Duncan said.  “I admit, I may have already known how to make tortillas from scratch for…oh, a good two centuries, now.  But I didn’t know that patting out the dough was the first thing your Abuela ever taught you how to do in the kitchen, back when you still needed four phonebooks and a dictionary to boost you up high enough to reach the kitchen table.  Or that after your dad left, she always made sure to make two or three in the shape of a heart instead of a circle, just for you.”  He lifted her chin, suddenly serious.  “I know….I know my age is a lot to get used to, Milly.  I’ve done a lot of things, and loved a lot of different people.  It’s easy to think that what we have can’t be special, then.  Can’t possibly feel as new to me as it does to you.”  He bit down on his lip for a moment.  “The thing you have to realize is…I’ve never been in love with *you* before.  And that makes it all new.   All special.   And more than a little scary, too.”  He looked at her earnestly.  “Can you possibly understand?”

She nodded, and kissed him.  Long enough for their bodies to start to effortlessly meld together, for her heart to quiver and her midsection to heat and her entire skin to start yearning for the touch of his hand.  When they broke for air, Milly was astonished to find that Duncan was breathing even more heavily than she was.  “Milly…”  he groaned…and then caught himself, shooting a rueful glance at the old-fashioned kitchen clock.  “How long do we have before Methos and Joe arrive for dinner?”

She glanced at the clock.  “Nowhere near long enough,” she said wryly…and broke into heartfelt laughter with him, the sound dissolving the tension.  “Better get on with heating up those beans, mister.  There’s plenty of tomatoes waiting to be chopped for the salsa, as well.”  He threw her smirk and a mock-salute and headed back to the kitchen, turning up the heat under the pan.  She watched, still laughing…and then stopped.  “Duncan?”

“Yes, Milly?”

“That…thing you mentioned.  The favor you wanted to return.”  She felt a flush of heat, as embarrassing as it was arousing, but decided not to let it stop her.  “Would you? Tonight?”

He pondered this for a moment.  “Well, I don’t know,” he said, looking her up and down.  “I’d love to, naturally.  But there’s some conditions that need to be met before you ask, Milly.  We both still have all our clothes on, true.  But after a kiss like that…are you really sure that you’re in a steady frame of mind?”

She started to laugh again.  “No.  Not even remotely,” she agreed.  “I’d better get back to the mole sauce, I guess.” She looked *him* up and down, the same way he had her.  “But I might very well ask you again.  Later.”

He grinned.  “Anytime you wish, Dr. Alphonso.”

***

It was several hours later.  Auntie Carolita’s tamale recipe had been duly made and enjoyed, every last gram of sauce polished from the plates by eager tortilla-bearing fingers.  Milly, Duncan, and Jobey had long since adjourned to the library, to drink a pot of cinnamon-spiced hot chocolate and enjoy some quiet conversation before bed, as had become their unbreakable ritual over the last few weeks.  Much to Milly’s surprise, after a brief absence, Alex had joined them, too—these days, the old Immortal usually departed the moment the table had been cleared, to put in a few more hours of research before bed.  Or possibly to stay up even longer than that, if his tired, owlish looks and Jobey’s pinched expression at the breakfast table meant what Milly thought they did.  Milly had been getting a little worried about that, to tell the truth.  She hadn’t known that it was possible for an Immortal to get dark circles under his eyes…

But tonight Alex had been surprisingly relaxed all evening, Jobey having kidnapped him earlier for a romantic walk along the beach.  Guessing from the secretive smirks Alex and Jobey kept exchanging during dinner, not to mention the handful of whispered comments about “too much sand in too many inappropriate places”, Milly suspected that the emphasis should have been put on the “romance” rather than the “walking”.  Alex had excused himself as usual right after dinner, but he’d shown up in the library a scant twenty minutes later, having clearly showered and washed his hair. Milly fervently hoped that all the inappropriately placed sand had been attended to, although how Alex had succumbed to such an inconvenience while Jobey had stayed immune remained a mystery.  Still.  Since utterly ignoring Alex and Jobey’s quite active sex life was one of the many cornerstones of their happy adult relationship, it was a mystery Milly was content to leave unsolved.  She’d chosen to ignore it, in favor of simply being happy that Alex was there. 

If Duncan had also noticed Alex’s shower and change of clothes, and suspected the cause for the same, he was even better at suppressing it than Milly was.  He simply went on with what he was doing, which was talking about a few of the different swords hanging on the library walls:  appraising their age and value, and giving Milly some idea of the strengths and weaknesses of each type of blade in combat.  At least he was, until Alex—who was busily pouring himself a brim-full cup of cocoa from the insulated silver pot—suddenly snorted.  “For heaven’s sake, MacLeod, the girl isn’t *quite* as green as all that,” he said archly.  “I didn’t neglect her education entirely when she was a little girl, you know.  I’m pretty sure Milly already knows the difference between an arming sword and a rapier, and can tell a scimitar from a katana, too.  What is it with the two of you constantly teaching each other things you both already know, anyway?”

Milly found herself on the verge of a tell-tale blush.  Jobey murmured “Alex,” in a disapproving way.  But Duncan just laughed.  “Given that Milly at age nine was the only American child I’d ever met who could conjugate Latin verbs as well as explain the difference between a Mercator and a Cassini-Soldener projection on a map, I suppose I have to agree with you, Methos.”  He held out the sword he was holding…a lovely 17th century Italian rapier, with some rich golden decoration along the guard.  “How about it, Milly?  *Do* you know the difference between a rapier and an arming sword?”

She took it with a smile.  “Well, it’s been almost thirty years since Alex and I last played Show and Tell with the swords in his office,” she said.  “And it’s not like I used that knowledge much in cartography classes.  But yes, I think I remember the basics.  Arming swords…” She nodded at the wall, where several very fine examples were to be seen… “generally have broad, flat blades, which makes them ideal for cutting and slashing.  Whereas most rapiers…”  Milly extended her arm outward with the sword blade at shoulder height, mock-lunging with a little flourish… “have a much thinner blade, intended mainly for stabbing.  They are ideal for dueling, especially if what you want to do is end a fight quickly by stabbing someone through the lung or heart.  If you want to disembowel them or sever a limb, though, you’re out of luck.”

Jobey looked horrified.  “Excuse me for a minute, Sprout,” he said politely, then stared at his husband, eyebrows raised.  “Methos?  Seriously?”

“What’s the matter now, Joe?”

“Oh, nothing,” Joe answered.  “I just find it a little hard to believe that even you would have thought it was a good idea to teach Milly which kinds of swords were best for causing which types of bodily harm.  I mean, really? When she was *nine*?”

Alex had filled his mug and enthroned himself in one of the high-backed leather library chairs.  He breathed in the heady scent of the cocoa.  “Terrible of me, wasn’t it,” he said nostalgically.  “What can I say, Jobey?  She was interested, and I didn’t see any reason to hide the truth from her. Namely, that instead of being the pretty symbols of romance most modern people assume, many centuries of human ingenuity went into engineering swords for just one purpose:  doing unto the other guy before he could do unto you, as quickly and fatally as possible.  As I recall,” he nodded at Milly, “you took it all in stride, Pix.  It was just one more thing to learn about, the same way you learned how to play a C-chord and all the rules of major league baseball from Joe.   I don’t think my little lectures did you any harm.  Well.”  He smirked into the firelight.  “Except for making you quite impatient with the way sword fights are usually staged in Hollywood.  I do distinctly remember you refusing to watch at least three popular movies that came out that year, based entirely on the unrealistic swordsmanship you saw in the commercials.  That *was* a little hard to explain to your Mom.”

“Not as hard as the, shall we say, extremely realistic diagrams I drew for my arms and armory research report in 5th grade,” Milly answered.  “Though I think the ones I drew later in the year for my research paper on the Black Death disturbed her even more.  Still.  You’re right, Alex. I never was bothered by any of the things you taught me, strange as that might seem now.  I suppose it all seemed like it had happened very long ago and far away.” 

Milly regarded the sword sadly for a moment.  Such things were, of course, not nearly as long ago or far away to any of the men within that room as the child Milly had assumed.  And it couldn’t be denied that knowing that fact was now re-shaping Milly’s life from the bottom up.  But she covered her sadness with another smile.  “Now I know differently, of course.  Which does put a new spin on those old lessons.  For instance, I now know that rapiers like this one are pretty much useless when it comes to Immortal battles, since there’s no way you could actually behead someone with one.  Which would probably explain why neither you nor Duncan carries one, day-to-day.”  She surrendered the rapier back to Duncan.  “I’m a bit surprised you have this sword hanging amongst your collection at all, Alex.”

“Yes,” Duncan agreed, in the tone of a man who had just seen a logical flaw he really should have spotted long before.  “Why *do* you have this rapier, Methos?  Not that the workmanship isn’t flawless--I’m pretty sure I could find a wealthy collector willing to pay half a million euros for it, if I tried. But it really isn’t your style…”

Alex smiled mysteriously into his cocoa.  “Sentimental reasons, mostly,” he said.  “That particular sword was a gift from Fate Worse Than Death Fed.”

Duncan turned a fascinating shade of red and sat down abruptly on a nearby ottoman.  Quite alarmed, Milly was on the verge of administering the Heimlich maneuver when she realized Duncan wasn’t choking.  No, he was laughing, physically shaking in an attempt to keep his hilarity from becoming audible.  Alex noticed it, too. “Yes, yes,” he said mildly.  “And I can just imagine what sort of terrible scene you are picturing, Duncan.  But amusing as the thought undoubtedly is, I must hasten to assure you that *I* never was stupid enough to Challenge Fed.  I’d hardly have been given a sword of his as a gift if I had, now would I?”

“Then…?”  Duncan asked.

“Sad to say, Byron wasn’t so lucky.” 

Duncan gave up. He actually began hooting with laughter, his completely uncontrollable guffaws filling the cozy space.  “Hold on a moment,” Milly said, staring at her suddenly unhinged beloved.  “Who was Fate Worse Than Death Fed?”

“He—he was an Immortal,” Duncan managed to stutter out.  “One who…who…”  He collapsed backwards, still hooting.

Milly looked past his gently shaking body to see that both of her former mentors were laughing as well.  Jobey was chuckling outright.  Alex’s amusement was more subtle, but Milly could tell by his broad grin and dancing eyes that he was just as entertained.  “All right,” Milly said, resigning herself to yet another round of being the only ignorant mortal in the room.  “Sometimes I think you all forget that I’m the only one here who doesn’t have the Who’s Who of Infamous Immortals permanently inscribed on her brain…”

“Not yet,” Jobey interrupted with a grin.  “Give yourself a a few years, Sprout.  You’ll eventually have to compile one of your own, just in self-defense.”

“Probably,” Milly agreed.  She sat down on the library chair nearest to Duncan’s ottoman.  “But I haven’t quite had time to yet, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of you mentioned ‘Fate Worse Than Death Fed’ before.  Someone want to fill me in?”

“His name was Federigo Gasparo Guidobaldo di Torregrossa,” Alex answered, rolling the syllables with great relish.  “And he was indeed an Immortal, as Duncan here…” Alex shot a fond look at the still-hooting Scot… “was so…eloquently…attempting to explain.  Federigo was born in the great Italian walled city of Urbino in…1543, was it Joe?”

“1544,” Joe said.  “But who’s counting?”

“You are, apparently,” Alex said dryly.  “But never mind.  Federigo was, as all Immortals are, a foundling.  But as has happened many times throughout history, when a highborn family’s much-needed male heir died at birth, Federigo was secretly substituted into its place.  He ended up being raised as the eldest son of one of the most powerful families within the city.  As such, young Fed was reared with every advantage.  He was educated quite extensively, taught languages and math and science and art.  And, while he was still very young, it was discovered that Federigo had quite an extraordinary talent for…drumroll, please…fencing.  His father, quite pleased by this early prowess, hired teachers for him from far and wide.  Federigo studied with all the famous fencing masters in the land…”

“But only with one kind of sword,” Duncan interjected, sitting back up.  He nodded earnestly at the sword he’d replaced on the wall.  “The rapier.”

“Yes,” Alex agreed.  “He only ever learned to fight with one type of sword…oh, but the rapier he *mastered*.  It truly was if the steel had become an extension of his arm.  Speed, strength, strategy… Federigo had them all.  By the time he was sixteen he’d already made quite a name for himself.  By the time he was twenty he was a living legend, having bested all the brightest lights of both his own and the previous two generations. No one, it seemed, could touch him.

“Then, one day, he died.  Not by the sword—it was a carting accident, I believe.  And he lived again. And suddenly, a whole new class of Challengers started knocking on his door.

“The Chronicles from that period are a bit vague.  But when I first met up with young Federigo—1754, it was—he told me that he’d fought something like a dozen Challenges before anybody ever bothered to explain to him just what the Game was all about.  And before you ask, no, he didn’t think this was odd.  At that time and place, having Federigo’s reputation was a bit like being the fastest gunslinger in the Old West.  Strange swordsmen were always riding into town to test their skill against him anyway, and Federigo made it a firm rule to never disoblige them.   He *was* a bit startled that so many strangers suddenly wanted to fight to the death, instead of surrendering the instant he drew first blood, as was the local custom.  But most of these new challengers were obviously of inferior class or foreign birth, and thus couldn’t be trusted to understand good manners.  Federigo simply dispatched such clods with a quick stab through the heart, and let his servants bury the resultant corpses in a back field.  If a day or two later the graves seemed disturbed—well, in those days, grave robbing was common enough.  And who really cared what happened to the earthly body of a failed foreign swordsman, anyway?”

“Hold on,” Jobey interrupted.  He looked fascinated.  “I didn’t know that part, Methos.  How did Federigo keep getting away with it?  Surely at least one or two of his opponents would have Challenged him again, after they escaped their graves?”

“I asked him that myself,” Methos answered.  “Fed said that it never happened.  I suspect that most of his Challengers, upon waking up with their heads still intact, simply counted their blessings and skedaddled rather than face him again.  Then, too, it’s hard to remember now just how rife the fear of demons and witches really was back then.  Being caught still walking after an obvious death was simply asking for a horrid end.”  Alex’s face darkened subtly.  “That threat wouldn’t have stopped someone like the Kurgan, of course.  Nor an Immortal with a serious grudge who was out for Federigo’s head at all costs.  But Fed seems to have been lucky.  All of his early opponents were willing to let the matter, ah, rest.”  Alex brightened.  “And then Federigo’s luck became even better still.  Because the first Immortal who *did* hold his sword long enough to explain the Game turned out to be…”

“Graham Ashe,” answered Joe and Duncan in chorus.

“Exactly,” Alex answered, nodding a graceful acknowledgement.  “Pixie, Graham Ashe was one of the finest swordsmen—one of the finest human beings-- to have ever graced the Game.  And the man who put some not inconsiderable polish on the skills of one Duncan MacLeod.”  Duncan nodded happily, evidently recalling a pleasant memory.  Methos smiled back.  “So Graham hung around Urbino for quite a few years.  He and Federigo became very good friends…lovers, too, according to some.  They certainly had a grand old time, sparring and learning from each other by day and carousing through town by night and generally living it up in the true Renaissance noble fashion.  But though Graham taught the young Italian everything he could about the nature of Immortality, he was never truly Federigo’s Teacher.  For one very simple reason:

“Federigo absolutely *refused* to play the Game.”

Milly looked around the room, freshly consternated.  Because Duncan had started chuckling again, his sides shaking wildly as he tried to keep his guffaws under control.  Jobey was snickering.  And even Alex laughed now, richly and musically, before he went on with his tale.  “I mean, he actually, genuinely, refused,” he said merrily.  “He thought the whole idea was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.  It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to risk his own head; he found the notion of taking anyone else’s to be equally repugnant.  Messy.  Inelegant.   And incredibly wasteful, too.  Because to Federigo’s mind, the only things worth living for were a) the thrill of a good swordfight, b) drinking, and c) sex.  And he quickly discovered that other Immortals were the best companions for all three.  Why cut off a man’s head in search of some vague, nebulous Prize nobody knew for sure was even real, when you could be getting drunk and having sex with him instead?  Or at the very least, getting drunk and *talking* to him, learning about the fights he’d had and the different techniques he’d learned?  It wasn’t some sort of noble, self-sacrificing pacifist protest.  Federigo was honestly incensed that anybody would even *believe* in such an absurd system.  Let alone kill for it.

“And so, he developed the most brilliant method of Challenge-avoidance the Game has ever known.”

Ever the consummate storyteller, Alex stopped there to moisten his throat with a sip of his rapidly cooling cocoa.  It gave Duncan and Jobey time to recover themselves somewhat, and for Milly to slide to the edge of her seat.  “Yes?” she asked, attention rapt.  “And what was that?”

“Well, it had its source in his mastery of the rapier,” Alex answered, taking one more sip before he set the mug aside.  “Federigo would never have been able to pull it off, if he hadn’t been as good as he was.  Phase one was simple.  Whenever a new Immortal Challenged him, Federigo would simply say that he didn’t want to fight.  If after several repetitions the other Immortal still refused to let the matter go, Federigo would move on to Phase Two.  This consisted of looking into the Immortal’s eyes and informing him bluntly that he would fight him if he must, but be warned…A Fate Worse Than Death awaited the Immortal if he did.” Alex snickered.  “Federigo got better and better at delivering this line as the years went by.  Eventually, he had a way of saying it that could send a shiver straight into a man’s soul.  By the time I met him, more than half his potential Challengers would back down because of his facial expression alone, even the ones who hadn’t heard the stories about him.  And the ones who had…well.  It got to the point where very few Immortals ever Challenged him in the first place.

“But there’s always *someone* who hasn’t heard the news.  So for them, Federigo would move onto Stage Three.  He’d meet the Immortal someplace private, rapier in hand.  And while the opponent was busy laughing his ass off at his choice of weapon—as you said, Pix, most rapiers are absolutely useless for cutting off heads— Federigo would simply run him through.  Skewer him through the heart, end the Challenge there and then. 

“And then the *real* fun would begin.”

Duncan and Jobey were both laughing uproariously now.  Alex took another sip of cocoa, smirking broadly.  “Federigo would replace the sword blade with a dagger, so the Challenger would stay dead,” he said.  “Then with the help of his loyal manservant—he had several throughout the centuries--he’d move the body.  And eventually clean away all the blood and take the dagger out…but not before arranging it so that the reviving Immortal would be found in the most *humiliating* circumstances possible.  Dressed in a beggar’s garb outside his place of business.  Propped up in a church pew with his body squeezed into a prostitute’s clothing. Left naked in the public square with his genitals in his hand, and a goat conveniently tethered nearby…” Milly couldn’t help it; now she was snickering, too.  “You name it, Federigo did it…and as the centuries went by and he became more practiced, he began to have an absolutely uncanny way of tailoring his revenge to suit the individual.  His reasoning was that most people feared public humiliation even more than death.  And I have to say, he seemed to have a point.  By the time we finally crossed paths, Fate Worse Then Death Fed had become quite famous.  The stories got told almost every time two Immortals got together.  And very few people would press forward with a Challenge once they discovered who he was.”

“But wait a minute,” Joe interrupted again.  “Didn’t you say that Byron Challenged him?”

“So he did, Joe.  And found himself regretting it.  Believe me.”

“But what on earth did Fed do to humiliate him?” Joe asked curiously.  “After all, this is *Byron* we’re talking about. Being found naked with a goat was pretty much his every day morning routine.”

“Ah,” Methos answered, eyes sparkling.  “Well.  Naturally, I had to help.”  Duncan started hooting again.  Methos shot him a mischievous smile.  “Bryon had been getting way too overconfident about his swordsmanship, and I thought Federigo’s particular brand of renegade justice was the gentlest way to knock some of the cockiness out of him,” he explained.  “After Federigo killed him, we took Byron’s seal ring from his finger and left him in the cow barn—that’s where the fight had taken place—while I smuggled Federigo into Byron’s writing room.  There we proceeded to get rip-roaringly drunk—and yes, quite possibly a little high on opium, too—while we spent the night writing the absolute *worst* poetry either of us could contrive.  ‘Ode to My Lady’s Largest Buttock’.  ‘She Runs Grotesquely, Unlike Day’. ‘On the Tragic Hunger of the Ordinary Bed-Flea’—I think that last one was my personal favorite.”  Alex got to his feet, one finger pointing solemnly up at the ceiling in classic Romantic poet’s style, as he carefully declaimed:  

“‘Oh flea!  
What shame!  
Thou art Squished and Squozzled wherever thine Small legs roam  
When Noble Man should Hail thee as his Brother…

When I dost see Thee  
Crawling through my lady’s darkly thatch  
My Heart doth Swell  
For do I not share Thine Hunger?

And is not the Itch Thou dost leave  
The Itch that cometh Amongst Us All  
Whenst we’st are longing for the True Divinity?’” 

Milly started hooting herself.  She collapsed backward into her library chair’s strong leather back, grateful that it was there to prevent her falling over as Duncan had done earlier—and had done again, the second Alex finished declaiming.  Jobey, however, just looked pained.  “‘And is not the Itch Thou dost leave/The Itch that cometh Amongst Us All/ Whenst we’st are Longing for the True Divinity?’” he quoted incredulously.  “Whenst we’st?  *Whenst we’st?* Please, please tell me that line was Federigo’s doing, Methos.  I’m not sure I want to know I’ve spent the last four decades married to a man capable of writing that.”

“Sorry, Joe.  As I recall, the whole creation was pretty much a team effort,” Alex answered.  He sat back down, smiling with pure nostalgia.  “When we had written enough poems for a small collection, I copied them onto Bryon’s finest note paper, and wrote a cover letter humbly asking the editor of a prestigious London press to consider them for publication.  Not Byron’s usual publisher—a competitor.  I forged Byron’s signature and used his seal.  The editor turned out to be awed enough by Byron’s talent—or possibly just greedy enough for his part of the Byronic money-making machine--not to question his good fortune.  He instantly authorized a special run of two hundred copies…”  Joe snorted.  “Bound in the finest white calf…” Joe’s snort became a guffaw.  “With genuine gilt lettering…” Joe’s guffaw became a strained, reluctant laugh… “And no less than six colored plates.  ‘On the Tragic Hunger of the Common Bed-Flea’ was sadly left unillustrated. But the artwork for “She Runs Grotesquely’ was really rather good…”

Joe surrendered.  His laugh turned into an uncontrollable full-belly chortle, and he, too, joined Milly and Duncan in the need for the furniture’s support to hold him up.  Alex laughed with them for several warm, wonderful minutes, before continuing his story.  “Byron thought that being left in the barn with his naked arse in a pile of cow dung was his entire punishment,” he said.  “He didn’t know the true extent of Federigo’s mad brilliance until the publisher proudly presented him with the book’s first copy.  Then Byron stormed the office, insisting that all two hundred books be burned immediately…which they mostly were.  Which is why ‘The Brown Cow’s Softly Scented Bed and Other Poems’ never got a chance to seek its justly deserved fame in the eyes of the world, and also why most modern Byronic scholars completely deny its existence.  However, I managed to snag one—unbeknownst to Byron--and so did Federigo—very ‘knownst’ to Byron indeed.  Which kept Byron just as humiliated as if ‘The Brown Cow’ had become a bestseller.  And was the reason why Federigo later presented me with one of his rapiers, as a token of his thanks.”  Alex looked thoughtful.  “I’m not sure what happened to Federigo’s copy of the book, but I sold mine to a literary collector during the 1870’s, in order to raise some cash before I sailed to the New World.  Rumor has it that it eventually ended up in one of the Vatican’s secret libraries, right next to a first edition of Byron’s Don Juan.  And so, even after all this time, Federigo continues to have the last laugh.”  Alex raised his glass in the air.  “So let’s toast Federigo Gasparo Guidobaldo di Torregrossa,” he said.  “Wherever he is, may he be laughing still.”

“To Federigo!” Duncan and Jobey responded, instantly on their feet with their beverages in hand.  Milly was a beat too slow to join in the chorus, but she drank the toast with the others, and when the ceremony was complete she looked around her, taking in three sets of sparkling eyes and flushed, happy faces. *It’s not all bad,* she thought to herself.  *Immortality.  It has its joys, and its laughter, too…*

It was a comforting thought to take with her, into the weeks ahead.


	8. People are going

It started the very next day.  A new deposit was made into the Jeannette Montgomery Arts Grant account, as well as the accounts Alex and Joe had set up for the Claudia Jardine Foundation and the Alexa Bond House.   The amounts this time made up another date: May 28th, 1961.  “Don’t feel bad for not recognizing it, Pix,” Alex said, just the tiniest tinge of sympathy softening his otherwise completely bleak expression.  “It’s my birthday—well, it was Adam Pierson’s birthday, the one I used back in the 1980’s and 90’s.  I picked it using the good old throw-a-dart-at-a-calendar method, the day I decided to rejoin the Watchers.”

Milly thought about this, trying to see all the implications. “Then…whoever made the deposits pretty much has to be a Watcher,” she said.  “Nobody else would know you by that birthday, would they?  And know the date of the Horsemen’s demise as well?”

“No.” Alex agreed.  His bleakness deepened.  “No, you’re right.  It pretty much has to be a Watcher.” 

And that was all he would say on the subject, at least in Milly’s hearing.  Nonetheless, over the next few weeks even more deposits appeared, all adding up to dates clearly intended to get Alex’s attention.  The day Adam Pierson had graduated from the Watcher Academy.  The first day he’d ever worked for Don.  The day he’d been made Head of Special Projects in Paris.  All of these made Alex react with various degrees of grimness, appearing at the breakfast table with darker under eye circles than even his long nocturnal studies of the prophecy could explain.  But it wasn’t until the day of the fifth deposit that he finally failed to come to breakfast at all.   “It was Joe’s birthday,” Duncan explained during their training session that day, as he and Milly practiced a kata side by side.  “Not the one Joe used in Las Cruces, or even Miami—his real one, the one he used in the military and with the Watchers all those years.  Methos is really upset about it.  He seems to think it’s a threat.  That the Deposit Makers, whoever they are, are telling him they know Joe didn’t die in Florida.  And that they’ll change that, if they can.”

*Deposit Makers,* Milly thought to herself.  Over the last few weeks the phrase had become a proper compound noun in their household, just like the Token Bearers had before it.  When Milly added in the Game and Immortality and Quickenings and the Gathering, she sometimes felt as if she was drowning in capital letters.  “Is that what you think, Duncan?”

Duncan hesitated.  He looked frustrated, although his arms and legs continued moving through the form with the same grace.  “No,” he said at last.  “No, I don’t.  I’m not sure that any of these deposits were meant to be threats at all.”  He frowned sourly into the mirror.  “I just keep thinking about everything you’ve told me about Dr. Clarke, what she said when she came to see you in Las Cruces.  The way she was willing to do so much to find the men she knew as Adam and Joe, even though almost three decades had gone by since she thought they’d died.  And I know she wasn’t alone in that.  A lot of people really loved Methos and Joe, Milly.  You weren’t at their wedding in London…”

Milly smiled.  “I wasn’t *alive* when they got married in London.”

“No, that’s true.  Somehow, I keep forgetting that.”  Duncan grinned at her in the mirror.  “Well, let me tell you…it was *not* a relaxed occasion.  Joe insisted on having Amanda and me as guests, along with all their Watcher friends.  And most of the Watchers were so freaked out by having two real live Immortals in the same room that they almost wet their formal wear.  Nonetheless, almost every Watcher Methos and Joe invited came anyway…from all over the world.  Paris.  Seacouver. And lots of other places, too.  Pretty much everyone who had ever worked in one of Joe’s bars came, no matter where their assignments had taken them since then.  There was even an entire family of Nepali Watchers that flew in from Kathmandu.”  Duncan shrugged.  “I never liked the fact that Methos was a Watcher—it seemed to me such a dishonest thing, just another way for him to keep hiding from the consequences of being Immortal.  But finally I realized at the wedding that it was much more than that.  The Watchers really were Methos’s extended family.  And Adam Pierson was very much loved by that family, even if none of them knew what he really was.  So…” Duncan broke the form just enough to make a wondering gesture at the mirror.  “So I just keep thinking…what if these odd deposits aren’t supposed to be threatening at all?  What if they are just an old friend trying to make contact with Adam Pierson in the only way he or she can think to?”

“Hmmm.”  Milly finished the form and dropped into a relaxed Horse stance, waiting for her heartbeat to subside.  “And what does Alex think of your theory?”

“You already know what Methos thinks,” Duncan said darkly.  “He believes the Deposit Makers are toying with him, trying to needle him into doing something stupid to break cover so they can find him and take his head.  And he could well be right.”  Duncan handed Milly a gym towel, waited while she dabbed at her forehead.  “The thing is, if we continue to go on as we have, we’ll never know one way or the other.  I suggested that we try making a deposit of our own—the date of Gilgamesh Day, maybe, or something else that a Watcher would be sure to understand.  I thought that maybe if they knew they’d gotten our attention they might respond with a way to contact them—a phone number, maybe, or an IP address.  But Methos thinks it’s too risky.”

“So what does he want to do instead?”

“What does Methos always do when confronted with an unforeseen dilemma?  Nothing.  Nothing at all.”  Duncan’s grin flashed toothily.  “Which I admit I find a little hard to stomach.  It’s always been one of the main differences between us, you know.  If there’s no clear path to follow, I’m usually in the ‘let’s do *something* camp’, while Methos is always firmly in the ‘wait and see’.  But.” Duncan sighed.  “This is Methos’s call to make.  It’s his accounts the Deposit Makers are violating, his and Jobey’s safety at stake.  So.  I’m not going push.  Or even say anything more about it at all.” 

“I wish there was something I could do,” Milly said thoughtfully.  “Not about the Deposit Makers—you are absolutely right, that has to be Jobey and Alex’s call.  I meant for Jobey and Alex themselves.  Especially Alex.  I know all this uncertainty has been taking its toll, and finding a deposit with Joe’s birthday has to feel like the very last straw.  Maybe I could make him a special dinner tonight, get his mind off it for a bit…”

“Oh.”  Duncan smirked.  “No, I don’t think there is.  Joe’s already hauled him out for another ‘relaxing walk’, and you know what that means.  I doubt we’ll see them before dinner time.  We probably want to avoid the beach for a few hours, too.”

“Noted,” Milly said with a grin, then sobered.  “Is there anything else we can do, though?  I don’t like it, Duncan.  I’m not exactly panicking over it the way Alex is, not yet.  But…”

“I know,” he said, and took her towel before sweeping her into a reassuring hug.    “You’re already doing everything you can,” he murmured into her hair.  “Continuing your practice with me.  Working on Project Haystack.  I know waiting is hard, Milly.  But…learning when to stand back and do nothing is part of being a warrior, too.”

She smiled into his chest.  “Not one of your favorite parts, from all I’ve heard.”

“No.”  He pulled her in even closer.  “But this time there are some pretty great compensations.”

***

The next few deposits had everything to do with Joe—Joe’s Watcher graduation date, his Watcher ID number, even the date of his wedding to Alex.  As each deposit was made, the tension on the island continued to ratchet upward, until it began to affect everyone and everything.  Alex started living in his office round the clock.  Jobey spent most of his time closeted in there with him, and when he did surface he was pale and wan, although he always made a game try at being to be as friendly and loving as always.  Not even Duncan seemed to be immune.  He’d started sleeping badly, and while he never failed to treat Milly with the same warmth, Milly could tell his attention was distracted.  She sometimes wondered if she was the only one on the entire island who truly saw what the situation was costing them all.  Alex may have been right--standing back and doing nothing may well have been the safest course.  But she’d have bet every dollar in her drawing account that nobody actually *felt* safe, and the stress was beginning to show. 

Sooner or later, something was going to have to give.

***

Mr. Media Mogul had caused a number of groomed walking paths to be made all over the island, weaving in and out of the rainforest and the beach.  They were, perhaps, a trifle overgrown now, narrow and dotted with the occasional low-hanging vine.  Still, if a person was alone (or if a couple was content to walk single file) the trails were more than passable.  Duncan had taken to running their labyrinthine length at least once a day—he usually did so in the late afternoon, just before it was time to meet Milly to make dinner.  Milly in turn had taken to waiting for him in the garden—there was nothing like the smile in his eyes when he first caught sight of her.  They’d share a quick kiss under the hibiscus arbor and then walk into the kitchen together. 

But on this particular afternoon—Milly would never know quite why—she laid aside her work on Project Haystack early with a strange feeling of restlessness, and began walking down the trail to meet Duncan instead of waiting.  The rainforest swallowed her up quickly as she proceeded down the path, spreading over and around her in all its humid, shady, mightily fertile glory.  There wasn’t one inch of ground or tree that wasn’t covered in some kind of plant, and many of those plants were covered in plants of their own.  Scents of wet earth were everywhere, occasionally mixed with a teasing note from a flowering bush or vine.  At first, the rainforest was quite noisy, filled with the constant chattering of birds and rustle of wind and small animals.  As Milly penetrated deeper, though, all the noise subsided, until she was walking through a landscape filled with the silent expectation, like a cathedral just before a service began, or a concert hall just before the first note of a symphony was struck.  Milly felt it as a strange prickle going through her skin, and her own sense of expectation began to increase.  She quickened her steps…

She found Duncan just around the next bend, in the center of a grove of old-growth mahogany trees.  He was sitting on a large, flat stone with his legs folded in lotus, his hands calmly clasped in his lap and a look of incredible peace on his face.  Behind him, a group of five shoulder-high standing stones were arranged in a semi-circle, their soft gray granite seeming almost golden in the late afternoon light.  Milly knew that, while Alex had kept his eye out for an island retreat for him and Jobey for decades, those stones were the reason he’d finally chosen this one.  Once upon a time, in the island’s ancient past, some human being had recognized this circle of ground as being Holy, and had raised these stones to mark it.  Milly closed her eyes for a moment, the same sensation of peaceful expectation she’d felt on the path washing over her both inside and out, body and mind, skin and soul.  It was almost like stepping into a soothing warm bath…

And just like that, she felt herself drawn into Duncan as well, as aware of him as she was aware of her own breath.  She could feel the steady rhythm of the oxygen-rich rainforest air whooshing in and out of his lungs.  She could feel the drying sweat on his skin, and the way the satisfying fatigue from his recent run already beginning to seep out of his legs.  She could feel that something was troubling him, and the way his meditation had assisted him in clearing his mind, helping him to come to a decision and even letting him set aside his worry for a time.  Most poignantly, she was aware of his awareness of *her*--how his exquisitely trained senses had identified her footsteps from far beyond the last bend in the trail, and how the knowledge of her coming had filled him with sweet, peaceful anticipation.    When Milly opened her eyes again, Duncan had opened his as well, and the way those chocolate eyes regarded her was …well.  Worth absolutely everything she’d ever had to go through in her life to reach that moment.  “Hi there,” he said softly.  “Did I lose track of time?  Is it time to make dinner already?”

He unfolded his legs but didn’t stand up, just settled into his rock more comfortably and raised one hand to her in invitation.  Milly carefully picked her way over the spongy earth and joined him.  “Not yet,” she said.  “It’s still an hour or so before we were supposed to start cooking.  I just… I had the strangest feeling that you needed me, that’s all.”  She sank down on the stone and pulled her knees to her chest, eyes irresistibly drawn upward, to the place where the old-growth mahogany trees stretched up to touch the sky.  The golden afternoon light made everything seem even more alive. “Not that I would have blamed you if you *had* lost track of time,” she said in a hush.  “This place is truly special, isn’t it.  Like no other place on the island.”

“Holy Ground,” he agreed.  “It always seems like it’s a world of its own.” 

“Yes,” Milly nodded.  “It’s like the air is thicker here, somehow.  Or no, that’s not quite right.  But there is something *more* here than there is in other places, isn’t there?  More light.  More life.  More time. ”    She smiled shyly. “I think I’d have known this was Holy Ground even if it wasn’t for the standing stones.  It starts just beyond that last tree, doesn’t it?  And extends past the stones down to the brook.”

He blinked at her.  “Yes, exactly,” he said, looking startled.  “But how…” He cocked his head, looking at her curiously.  “Can you…can you sense it, Milly?”

She nodded.  “I always have been able to, I think.  There’s a deep feeling of quiet here, one I feel in my bones.  I used to feel something very similar when I went to church as a little girl.  Like the moment I crossed over the threshold, I was walking into an entirely different world.” Duncan nodded, looking troubled.  Milly gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.  “Has Alex talked to you any about the research he’s been doing?  About what Kronos, Kairos, and Aionos might really mean? At least to whoever wrote the prophecy?”

“A little.  Mostly, he’s been keeping his research to himself.”

“Well, I think he would have kept it from me, too, if I hadn’t finally cornered him one afternoon when he came into my office to discuss Project Haystack,” Milly answered with a laugh.  “But he did tell me how the prophecy writers seemed to think that each kind of time made up a world of its own.  Worlds that overlapped, like layers of blankets on a bed.  And that sometimes, where the fabric of one wore thin, another would poke up through it.  Like a bubble.”  She smiled a little self-consciously.  “I’ve been wondering lately if Holy Ground wasn’t like that.  Places where what we think of as ‘real’ time has somehow worn thin, and Kairos…or even Aionos …has pushed through into the world instead.”  She looked around at the circle of trees worshipfully.  “I certainly feel like I’m in touch with something magic, here.  Something eternal.  Like this circle of trees has always been and always will be, just like this…”

She stopped, because Duncan was looking very startled, as if a long term mystery had just solved itself in his head.  “Yes,” he said.  “Yes, that’s what it’s like, exactly.  Standing on Holy Ground *is* like stepping outside of time, walking into something greater.  Something powerful, with its own set of unbreakable laws.  Maybe that’s why even the worst of us is forced to respect it…” He was quiet for a moment, clearly trying to chase some though to its conclusion.  After a moment, though, he let it go, and met her eyes with a brilliant smile.  “I don’t feel it, though, not the way you do.  I hear it, instead.”

“What does it sound like?”

“It sounds…”  He sighed.  “Oh, Milly, I don’t know how to describe it.  It sounds like a million wind chimes, all ringing in tune. Or a dozen church bells tolling.  Or a football field full of Zen monks droning the Om in chorus.  Except it’s not something that happens *outside* of me.  It happens inside, right in the middle of my mind, completely skipping my ears.  It’s the same thing I hear when another Immortal is near, only louder, and just…just more.  Sometimes, in some places, it almost hurts, it’s so overwhelming.  In other places, like here…” He suddenly looked wistful.  “It’s beautiful.  I could stay here for days, just listening.  Letting it give me strength.”  He looked up as Milly had done, searching for the hard-to-see place where the trees touched the sky.  When he looked back down, his eyes were sad.   “Milly—“

“Yes, Duncan?”

“I’ve been having dreams about Amanda.  I've had one every night this week.” 

Completely taken aback by this, Milly’s mouth formed a little ‘o’.  Duncan saw it. “No, not that kind of dream,” he said, chucking her affectionately under the chin.  “I only have those sorts of dreams about you, now.  These…these have all been nightmares.” 

Ah.  Milly refused to blush, choosing instead to focus on the matter at hand.  At least she now understood the reason for Duncan’s restless nights.  “Tell me about them.”

“They’ve all been pretty much the same. I could never tell where she was, but it was cold and dark and she was alone…and swordless; that part was very clear to me.  She was hurt—there was blood on her forehead—and calling out to me to stay safe.”  Duncan frowned.  “I’ve been telling myself that it’s nothing, just my subconscious worrying because she hasn’t been in touch.  And really, that shouldn’t be a surprise.  It’s not uncommon for Amanda and me to go for decades without speaking, after all.  Not to mention that she always disappears for a while, this time of year.  But…”

“But you think it could be more.”  Duncan nodded.  Milly spoke hesitantly.  “Duncan.  I know…I know that when and Alex were still sharing your Quickenings, you were aware of his every heartbeat, every breath.  Could you be picking up on Amanda in the same way?”

“No, Milly,” he answered gravely.  “Amanda and I have never been connected in that way."

"Really?"

"Really."  Duncan looked deeply into Milly's eyes.  "She’s special to me, of course.  We’ve been friends and lovers off and on for almost four centuries.  But we’ve never shared anything more than a bed and a few months of mutual companionship, here and there.  Trust me.  You have nothing to worry about.”  This time Milly did let herself blush, a little embarrassed that he’d read her so well.  Duncan smiled at her understandingly.  Then he sighed.  “But…a long time ago, I had a similar dream about Connor, when he was also alone and in trouble.  This feels too close to that for me to ignore.  So… I went to Methos right after breakfast, and asked him to figure out a safe way for me to make some calls.  I know both he and Joe have left several messages for Amanda recently, and she never called back.  But I have a better idea of the kinds of places she likes to disappear to when she needs a break, so I thought I might be able to do a better job of tracking her down.  I thought all it would take was a few calls.”

“And did it?”

“No.”  Duncan shook his head unhappily.  “As far as I can tell, no one has heard from her in almost six months.  And so far, this hasn’t worried anyone.  Amanda told all her employees at Raven-Wolfe Security that she was taking a lengthy sabbatical, and might be gone for the better part of the year—so naturally none of them see any cause for concern.  Nor do any of her Immortal friends.  Father Liam--that’s Amanda’s best Immortal friend, you’d like him, I think—told me that he figured she’d just finally stopped mourning Nick and had gone away somewhere to plan some elaborate jewel heist in order to celebrate living again.  He said he’d worry when she called wanting bail money, not before.  But…”

“But you are worried now.”

“Yes.”  Duncan picked up her hand. “Milly…I’m going to ask Methos to get me solarplane tickets to Toronto as soon as he can.  I don’t think Amanda’s there, or she would have at least looked in on her people at work.  But it’s the best place to start looking.  I’m not sure where I’ll go from there.  Wherever the trail leads, most likely.   It’s very possible I’ll end up flying to Paris or New York or even Timbuktu, for all I know, before I find her.  And…I may not be able to find her at all.  But I have to *try*.” 

This, of course, was self-evident.  The Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod Milly had come to love could no more have resisted flying off to save a friend than he could have stopped breathing.  Milly could also see that this was the inevitable break of the island’s tension she'd long known would have to come—and it was a much gentler, wiser way to break up the situation than anything else she’d come up with.  Milly opened her mouth to tell Duncan so, to say that she both understood and approved. But just as she was about to, she suddenly realized exactly what he was saying—that he was leaving the island, leaving *her.*  And her heart twisted.  Leaving her with a feeling of loneliness and longing so intense it robbed her of the power of speech. 

Fortunately, Duncan wasn’t finished.  “So,” he said.  “The only question now is whether I ask Methos to buy one plane ticket, or two.”

And this was so unexpected that Milly’s heart twisted again…although this time, it was in a much more pleasurable way.  “Two?” she repeated blankly.  “You want me to go?”

“I could use you, Milly,” he said.  “We work together really well.  And you see the world in such a different way.  There’s a very good chance that you’ll see something, pick up on some clue, that I would miss.  Besides.  With you at my side, I know I never have to worry about getting lost.” 

She gave a startled bark of laughter.  He smiled too, then sobered.  “It could be dangerous, though,” he said.  “I don’t seem to be able to go more than a few days in the city—any city-- without some kind of crazy Immortal coming after my head.  And if my dream is right and Amanda really is in some kind of serious trouble…we could be walking into a very bad situation.  One that we have absolutely no way to prepare for ahead of time.”  He looked at her earnestly.  “This won’t be a romantic getaway, Milly.  But you're becoming a very good shot, and you’ve learned a lot in the dojo over the last few months.  You’re strong and smart and you know how to handle yourself in a crisis, and I…well.  I’d really like to have you at my back.  What do you say?”

Duncan wasn’t sure of her answer.  Milly could tell that, by the uneasy way he met her eyes, by the tension in the fingers that were still holding her hand.  And maybe she shouldn’t have been so sure of her answer, either.  Maybe she should have felt some hesitation, some push-pull, some urge to avoid the possibly quite perilous future and just stay in the warm safety she’d known on the island all these months.  But there wasn’t.  Milly leaned forward, placing a quick kiss on his forehead.  And then spoke her answer with her whole heart.  “What should I pack?”

***

The moment they entered the house, Minerva played a message for Milly and Duncan, recorded in Jobey’s voice:  “Hey kids!  I talked Methos into abandoning his research early.  We’re going to have a small picnic on the beach and then head straight to bed, so don’t worry about getting dinner for us.  See you in the morning…”

The words were innocent enough, but Jobey’s bright, cheerful voice and the Alex’s unintelligible murmuring in the background made the couple’s planned activities as obvious as if they’d recorded “Hey, kids.  Going to spend the rest of the evening having sex on the beach.  Talk to you tomorrow,” instead. “Well,” Milly said.  “I’m glad Jobey once again managed to get Alex away from his office.  And I suppose I can’t fault them for taking advantage of this beautiful beach for their, ah, amorous adventures.  It is their beach, after all.  But I must admit that I’m starting to get just a little jealous.” She batted her eyelashes at Duncan.  “I wouldn’t mind taking a romantic sunset walk or two of our own.  And I don’t think we can.  Not if we’re constantly worried about tripping over the two of them.  Or them tripping over us.”

He smiled, and pulled her close.  “We don’t need a beach,” he said.

Several hours later, pleasantly tired and happy to the very tips of her toes, Milly tiptoed out of her bedroom—Duncan was out like a light in her bed, snoring like the proverbial hacksaw.  Milly sat down at the desk in her office, quietly asking Minerva to show her all the possible solarplane routes between Barbados and Toronto. 

She was a little startled when, rather than projecting a grid of departures and arrivals like she’d halfway expected, Minerva instead projected a map.  Apparently the computer had learned on her own that if a map was available to answer any request of Milly’s, that was the form Minerva should present the data in.  The earth hovered over Milly’s desktop in all her spherical beauty, different colored lines representing the routes of different airlines, with the departure times and other pertinent data noted in floating bubbles over each line. Milly smiled, remembering how she had once spent months laboring over similar maps, for her first try at a PhD dissertation project.  And a damn fine project it had been, too.  The new method she’d developed for figuring out the most efficient travel route between any two places on the planet could have been a Plex standard by now, used by every household on the planet.  If only…

Her head snapped up.  If only…

Shortly before dawn, Duncan wandered in.  He was wearing nothing but a pair of black silk sleep pants, hair loose about his shoulders and still slightly rumpled from sleep.  It was a picture that normally would have distracted Milly to the upmost, but she was much too close to her prize now; the evidence of her night’s labors were everywhere, scattered hither and yon across her desk in a truly staggering amount of holographic maps and worksheets.  Duncan blinked, took in the holographic mess, blinked again.  Then he padded gently over to her, bent over, and brushed a kiss across her bare shoulder.  “Woke up and missed you,” he murmured, and waved a hand at her desk.  “What’s all this?”

“I was looking at possible airline reservations for us late last night, and I had an idea.”

“An idea?” Duncan straightened up, surveying her desk skeptically.  “This looks more like a whole dissertation.”

She laughed.  “Well, you’re not far wrong,” she said, fingers furiously typing.  “The root of the idea *was* going to be the subject of my PhD dissertation, once upon a time.  Hang on…I’m almost done… “ She finished the string of characters she was entering, pressed “enter”, took a deep breath and sat back.  “There.  Now we just have to wait.”

“For what?”

“For Minerva to do her part.  I’ve just given her a pretty complex problem to solve, and she will need to look up a lot of information in order to do it.  But we should have an answer in a few minutes.”  Milly dismissed the holo paper she’d been typing on with a wave of her hand.  Then she pulled the original globe, the one with the solarplane routes, back into the center of the desk.  “You remember how I told you I worked for Plex Earth for a while?  After I got my master’s?”

Duncan nodded.  “After your black hole year,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to her.  “You needed to take a break from Academia for a while.”

“Yes.”  The reminder of that year sent a wave of sadness through her, but Milly blinked it away.  Now was not the time.  “Well.  You can take the girl away from Academia, but you can’t take the Academia out of the girl.  I always knew I was going to go back and complete my doctorate one day.  So in my spare time, I started working on this.”  Milly nodded at the map.  “It was a new way of addressing an old, old problem—namely, just what IS the best way to get from point A to point B, when you have so many different ways to travel?  Solarplanes, bullet trains, driving, buses, even walking on your own two feet…they all work wonderfully well, and depending on the situation, you might choose one over the other.  You wouldn’t book a solarplane flight just to cross your city, for instance.  Nor would you try to walk across an entire continent. 

“But the problem is—“ Milly waved a hand over the tangle of crisscrossing plane routes—“modern transit is so incredibly complicated that sometime the choices aren’t so obvious.  Take travelling between Seacouver and Portland.  The Great Northwest Bullet Train can make the trip in three hours; the average solarplane flight takes two.  But solarplane flights have much higher security, so you need to tack on an extra hour or two for that.  Not to mention that the Seacouver Airport is huge, and it takes the average person at least another half hour to navigate from check-in to their departure gate.  And what if there’s a head wind that day?  What if you need to leave *now*, and there’s a train leaving in fifteen minutes, but the next direct flight to Seacouver doesn’t leave until tomorrow?  That’s the kind of problem I was trying to solve.”

“As someone who has spent more of his Immortal life than he wants to remember sitting around waiting in airports, I have to say, that sounds like a very good problem to solve,” Duncan said dryly.  “Did you crack it?”

Milly nodded.  “I got pretty close,” she said.  “Basically, I had to develop an entirely new kind of map. I built it in four dimensions, you see.  That way, the great cities of Seacouver and Portland could stay at the same relative three-dimensional XYZ coordinates, but the distance between them could change in the fourth dimension, warping depending on the route used.  By measuring the amount of warping, it was finally possible to tell which route was really the most efficient…” She caught Duncan’s slightly panicked, what-the-heck-does-that-mean?-face, and backtracked hurriedly.  “Never mind.  Let’s just say that I did manage it.  At least, I managed it with solarplane routes. Data for them was easy to find; commercial solarplane routes are public knowledge, and the industry has done so much research on weather delays and the security efficiency of different airports that it was fairly easy to write it all into my map.  I meant to add other modes of transit too, starting with the bullet trains, but….” She sighed.  “Then my girlfriend stole my research.”

Duncan went very, very still.  If Milly had been less distracted, she would have recognized the stillness--it was the same total concentration, the total focus, that Duncan always slipped into just before a battle.  It meant that he was very angry indeed, and only controlling it because he knew to the bottom of his soul that in a few more minutes, his sword would be drawn and somebody’s head would be severed.  “She. Did. What?”

“Yeah.  I know.”  Milly smiled tightly.  “She did a brilliant job of it, too.  She hacked into my files and changed all the date and location stamps, so it looked as though it had been her work all along.  I might have been able to fight it even so, but…Primrose sold my algorithms to the CIA.  Turned out that what I’d envisioned as an easy-to-use phone app that would help your average traveler get home a few hours faster turned out to be ideal for national security.  Not only could it help plot the most efficient routes for operatives, but if you used the program in reverse, you could also predict where somebody came from, the most likely origin point for any given destination at any given time and place.  This turned out to be invaluable for tracking down terrorists.  I’m pretty sure it was a descendant of my program that found the perpetrator of the Austin Bombing in ’32…” Duncan was staring at her now, wide-eyed.  Milly shrugged uncomfortably.  “So the first time I knew anything about it was when two lovely men in the cliché black suits showed up on my doorstep, and essentially told me that I needed to stop my research or face imprisonment, as the whole program was now the property of the US government and thus subject to the New Patriot Act.”

“Oh, Milly.”  Duncan’s hand found hers and covered it, warm and reassuring.  “Did you know Primrose was the one who’d betrayed you?”

“I didn’t then.  But it took me less than a day to figure it out.”  Milly’s jaw tightened.  “When I confronted her, she simply smiled at me and said that brilliance could always be bought and sold, but in the real world, ruthlessness was the only character trait that mattered.  She said I was lucky to have learned the lesson so cheaply.  And…much as I hate to concede it… she might have had a point.  Primrose is, after all, the new head of Plex Earth now.  While I was simply a professor at a particularly backwater state university.  And I’m not even that anymore…”

“No,” Duncan said.  “No, Milly.  *No*.”   Minerva gave a gentle chime.  A new sheet of holo paper popped up in front of Milly; Milly frowned at it, then typed for a few seconds more.  When she was finished, Duncan said softly, “You didn’t let her stop you.  You did go on to get your PhD.”

“Yes,” Milly agreed.  “Eventually I realized Primrose was only partially right.  Maybe somebody with sufficient ruthlessness *would* always be out there, ready to steal my ideas.  But I was still in the stronger positon, because I could have new ones, and that kind of mind simply cannot.  So I started working on a different project, which did eventually become my real dissertation.    And I don’t mean to sound bitter about UNM; I didn’t end up teaching there because I had to. I chose it.  And I loved it.  I loved being home, loved teaching kids that were so close to the way that I used to be. So.”  She typed a few more strings.  “No regrets.  I might wish that I’d had better taste in romantic partners…but perhaps it was only kissing a frog like Primrose that could truly make it possible for me to appreciate a prince like you.  And today I’m especially glad that I put in all the effort into that first project that I did.  Because if I hadn’t…I would never be able to do this.” She hit enter with a flourish.

“And what is this, exactly?”

“Oh.  Sorry.”  Milly smiled sheepishly.  “Solarplane routes, Duncan.  I started thinking about all those mysterious bank deposits of Alex’s.  It’s highly likely that they weren’t made in person.  But what if they were?  Then somebody would have had to travel to Calgary and Seacouver and Geneva to make them.  That means they probably took a solarplane.  That means, like our dear friends in the CIA, I can calculate the routes they took, and even figure out the most likely place they departed from.  It took me all night to reconstruct my original program, but I have it now.  All I need to do is input the exact days and times these mysterious people were in those cities…which we know, because of the date stamps on the deposits themselves.  And so…”  She moved around a few holosheets, typed several more lines, and hit enter one last time.  “Now we shall see what we can see.  Cross your fingers.”

To Duncan, the next few moments were incomprehensible.  The multi-colored plane routes displayed on the big floating globe suddenly vanished, replaced by a new set of lines.  They spider webbed outward in complex, ever growing patterns from just three points—Seacouver, he could identify that much at least, and Geneva and Calgary as well.  A second later the peacefully floating globe seemed to…warp, somehow, and twist; Duncan would never be able to explain just what it did exactly.  Except that for a moment it seemed like he was looking at many earths, all with surfaces rippling and distorting like waves in a tank.  Then, just as suddenly, it was over.  The planet stabilized.  Lines started to disappear, until finally there were only three, snaking their way out from each of the three cities. 

None of the lines were straight.  They curved and skipped over the continents like any other plane route would do, with several stops along the way.  But they definitely converged on a single central point.  A point in Europe. 

A point in France.

“France,” Millie breathed excitedly.  “Holy shit, it *worked*!  Hang on a second…let me enlarge…” She pulled on the globe, making it ten, twenty, and then an uncountable number of times larger.  The bits that went beyond Minerva’s projectors at the borders of the desk disappeared.  But that didn’t matter, because the globe was now of sufficient resolution to display cities and roadways…and the small town airport where the three lines converged.  “Aeroport de Bordeaux,” Milly said frowning.  “Bordeaux? But that’s…”

“The place where I killed Kronos,” Duncan finished.  “Let me put some clothes on, Milly.  Then I’ll go wake up Joe and Methos.  They need to see this right away.”

***

It was possibly the first war council in history where all four of the major participants were still in their pajamas. 

Duncan had thrown on a white t-shirt and a nut-brown cotton robe over his silk sleep pants—the combination made him look oddly like a Jedi.  Alex, who had been hard at work in his office giving his translation of the prophecy yet another go, was wearing a similar robe, although his was colored grey, and had gotten very soft and faded with use.  Milly could almost have sworn that she’d seen it thirty years before in Las Cruces, and boggled that Alex could have held onto such a thing through all of his and Jobey’s travels.  Jobey, who out of all them had been the only one actually asleep when Duncan summoned them, was perhaps the most embarrassingly attired.  Under his own plain white t-shirt he was wearing a pair of island print boxer shorts, as garish as any of the shirts Alex habitually wore. (“Gift from Methos.  Just. Don’t.  Ask,” Jobey had said in a clipped undertone when he’d caught Milly staring at his unexpected sartorial splendor.  Milly didn’t ask.)

Given that Milly was in her own habitual nightwear—much-washed flannel bottoms with bunny rabbits on them, and a plain white cotton sleeveless top—they didn’t exactly make an awe inspiring group.  Certainly they didn’t *look* a team of crack mortal and Immortal minds ready to blow apart the massive conspiracy that had been dogging them for weeks.  Then again, Milly didn’t think anything could have made her feel particularly awe-inspiring just then. Now that the first adrenalin rush that accompanied her discovery had faded, she was very much feeling the effects of her long, sleepless night.  Worse: she was slowly coming to the conclusion that her great breakthrough really wasn’t the huge, illuminating firecracker she’d thought it was.  It was more like a fizzling match.   When Alex sat himself at her desk, where the map of Bordeaux was still displayed in all its glory, and said:  “Okay.  I think it’s time to lay out exactly what we know, or at least what we *think* we know.  How does knowing that the Deposit Makers came from Bordeaux change things?”  Milly was forced to frown.  “Well, put like that, I don’t think it changes very much,” she said.  “We still don’t know who the Deposit Makers are.  We still don’t know what their motives are.  All we know is that the odds are very, very good that they really did make those deposits in person, and if they did—then they flew out of the Bordeaux airport in order to do it.  But we don’t know where they live, how many there are, or how to contact them.” She slumped.  “I’m sorry, gentleman.  I thought…I thought this would be more helpful than it actually is.”

“Oh, no, Milly,” Duncan corrected her. “Don’t you see?  We know what flights they took now.  We can hack into the airline records and compare the names on the passenger lists for all the different dates.  That should tell us who they are.  Or at least what names they were travelling under.”

“We can do that?”

“*I* can do that.  Airline computer hacking has become something of a specialty of mine,” Alex said sourly.  “But I can do it better from my own office, Pix.”  He stood up with a yawn.  “It may take a few hours.  Duncan, you are welcome to go back to bed, if you want.  So can you, Milly.  Or you can both come to my office if you can’t stand the suspense.  I only have the one couch in there.  But one of you could bring some pillows and sprawl out on my floor…the carpeting is surprisingly sleep-friendly…”

Duncan looked puzzled.  “And you would know this because…?”

“You really don’t want to know,” Alex answered.  “Let’s just say that from time to time Joe chooses unusual locations to tire me out in.”  Duncan flushed. Alex turned to his husband.  “Joe…”

“I know, I know,” Joe sighed.  “Research-assistant mode engaged.  One thermos of very strong coffee coming up.  I’ll meet you there.”

In the end, both Milly and Duncan chose in favor of the office.  Duncan, who had gotten enough sleep to be fully awake, alternated between pacing and looking over Alex’s shoulder, something that annoyed Alex no end.  At least, it did until Alex succeeded in procuring the passenger lists, at which point he turned the desk over to the far-less-fatigued Duncan to sort through the names.  Alex sprawled out on the floor.  Milly, who by unanimous consent had been awarded the only couch—sometimes it was useful, being the only woman in a group of chivalrous men, even if Alex still liked to protest he was anything but—tried to stay awake.  But eventually she surrendered, falling into a sleep so deep that not even the fragrance of Jobey’s excellent coffee roused her.  

She woke an indeterminate time later to see bright sunshine flooding in through the windows, and all three men gathered around the desk.  “It has to be them,” Duncan was hissing.  His voice was unnaturally quiet—presumably out of deference to the supposedly still sleeping Milly—but vehement.  “’Darius Constantine.’  ‘Rebecca Burns’.  ‘Amanda Grace’.  It *has* to be these three, Methos.  They’re such obvious pseudonyms.  Can’t you tell?”

“I can tell that the pseudonyms are obvious, MacLeod,” Alex answered tartly.  “And I can see just as clearly as you do that at least one of the three flew to each of our target cities from Bordeaux on the dates the deposits were made.  My question is: why?”

“Maybe we can find out,” Jobey said.  “Alex, the airlines are required by law to scan a copy of every passenger’s photo ID, before each and every flight.  I know the names are fake.  But the ID pictures will have to match the face of whoever actually flew in those seats, or they’d never have gotten past security.  Can you bring them up?”

“Just a second.  It’s awkward.  I have to…”  Alex spent the next few minutes typing, and mumbling softly to himself.  “There—no. Damnit. Come on, little database.  Let me in.  I’m not a big bad hacker from the Caribbean, oh no; I’m just another boring airline security supervisor running a perfectly normal cross-check on a passenger’s identity.  Yes…that’s it…good…thank you!”  He sat back triumphantly.  A second later three life-size ID photos popped into being over Alex’s desk.

All three men got very, very quiet. 

As far as Milly could tell, the faces belonged to three perfectly ordinary members of humanity.  The first was a pleasant-faced Latina woman, perhaps another ten or so years older than Milly, with several streaks of silver liberally highlighting her dark hair.  The second was an elderly Indian lady, the edges of her brightly colored silk sari just visible on her shoulders above the photo’s crop line. Her grey hair was pulled back into a long, long braid, and she had a traditional black bindi highlighting her regal forehead.  The third was a man of African descent, of an age or even older than the Indian woman, his grizzled gray hair making a sharp contrast with his dark skin.  While all three looked rather contented, smiling at the camera happily instead of assuming the annoyed or blankly dazed look most people had when being photographed for a government ID, that was the only thing that really stood out.  Milly certainly had never seen any of their faces before.

But that wasn’t true of anyone else in the room.  All three member of her family were staring at the photos in shock.  After a long, dazed moment, Methos spoke.  “Maya,” he said.  “Sword department Maya.  I probably wouldn’t have recognized her walking down the street, she’s changed so much.  But here…like this…the eyes…”

“I remember her from your wedding,” Duncan said.  “She was the only Watcher at the entire reception who got up the courage to ask me to dance.  And…” he looked urgently across at Joe.  “Joe.  The man.  That’s Reverend Bell, isn’t it?  Or am I wrong?  He’s changed a lot, too…”

“Not changed, Mac,” Jobey corrected gently.  “Aged.  The way we mortals do.  And yes, that’s him.  He must be close to ninety, now.  He was only a few years older than me.”

“Thomas Bell?” Alex repeated curiously.

“You don’t recognize him?  No, I guess you wouldn’t,” Jobey said.  “It was just Mac and me on that particular adventure, wasn’t it.  Methos, Thomas Bell was a Baptist minister in Seacouver in 1996… Derek Worth’s minister.  I recruited Reverend Bell into the Watchers after Mac broke the word to him about Immortality, in an attempt to keep Derek from following Gavriel Larca.”  Jobey regarded the picture sadly.  “I tried to invite Reverend Bell to our wedding too, but…he had very strong moral objections to condoning a sexual relationship between two men.  Which is why he never came to visit us, either in London or in Paris.  A shame.  Because apart from that one little detail, we could have been friends.  Thomas Bell was as good a man as I ever met.  He was a damn good Watcher, too.”

Alex reached up to his husband comfortingly.  “No human being ever gets everything right,” he said.  Jobey nodded unhappily.  Methos scrutinized the pictures again.  “Joe…who is the second woman?  I keep thinking that I should recognize her.  But I don’t.”

“I don’t know her, either,” Duncan agreed.

 “Neither do I,” Joe admitted.  “I agree with Methos, though.  She does seem like she should be familiar.  But I can’t place her.  Do you think that she’s a Watcher, too?”

“She pretty much has to be, doesn’t she?” Alex answered.  “Otherwise, the chances of her being on those particular flights bearing a pseudonym like ‘Rebecca Burns’ are much too farfetched to even consider.  But if she is, she must have been recruited far too late to have known either of us.  She can’t be more than…what?  Forty-five?  Fifty, tops?” 

“Meaning she’d have still been in high school when you two faked your deaths in Portugal and stopped being Watchers for good,” Duncan agreed.  “Could she be the daughter of someone you knew, though?  Watching does tend to run in families.  If her mom or dad was a Watcher, that could explain why she looks familiar to you.”

Both Jobey and Alex leaned closer to the image, clearly scrutinizing the picture even more closely.  After a long moment, Alex sat back.  “Still not ringing any bells,” he said.  “Which is good, actually.  If anything about this puzzle can be.”  He shivered.  “I’m not sure I like the idea of the hunt for my head becoming multi-generational.”

 “Are you still so sure that’s what they really want?  Your head?” Duncan said.  The two other stared at him.  Duncan lifted his hands defensively.  “Okay, okay,” he said.  “I know how it looks.  Evil Watchers combing through your past and stopping at nothing to find you.  And maybe that’s exactly what it is.  But…” He shrugged helplessly.  “At least two of these people were people who *liked* you, Methos.  Maya certainly did.  And Reverend Bell liked you, too…at least, I know he really cared about Joe.  Respected him, was grateful that he’d brought him into the Watchers.  Not going to your wedding was just as hard on him as it was on you, Joe. Maybe he couldn’t unbend enough to approve of your relationship, but I still know he would never have meant either of you any harm.  So maybe…maybe none of these people do.”  He gestured at the screen.  “I mean, just look at the pseudonyms they picked.  Famous Immortals all…but good Immortals.  It’s not like any of them called themselves “Kronos Kord”, for god’s sake.  No.  They picked the names of six moral Immortals, all of whom you happened to call friend, Methos.  Maybe…the names are just another way of getting your attention.  Maybe…they just want to talk to you.  Nothing more.”

Alex seemed about to say something biting…then thought the better of it.  He wilted slightly.  “When you’ve had someone with the Watcher symbol on her wrist coming for your head, ‘maybe’ is a lot to risk one’s life on,” he said.  “And not just my life, Duncan.  Joe’s and Milly’s lives, too.”

Duncan ducked his head.  “I know.”

“Well, *I* think we need more information,” Jobey said, effortlessly stepping in to calm the awkward moment.  “Methos?  I know Maya and the Reverend Bell used fake names to travel…but do you think they would have changed their names for good?  What are the odds that they still have Facebook pages under their real names?”

Alex frowned.  “It will only take two seconds to find out,” he said.  “Minerva.  Search for the Reverend Thomas Bell’s Facebook page, please.  Age somewhere between 85 and 90 years.” 

A page flickered up, with a different picture of the same African-American man at the top.  “Two dimensional,” Alex murmured.  “Very old fashioned…but then, it’s only the young folks who really design their pages for holo-space, so far.  Hmmm.  Listed as “single” and “retired”—that’s interesting.  Birthplace given as Seacouver, USA.  Current living in…” He stiffened.  “Bordeaux. France.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Milly said, uncurling her legs and sitting up.  “Duncan and I can visit him on our way to Toronto.  We were going to stop over in Paris, anyway.  Bordeaux will hardly be out of our way at all.”

She couldn’t have startled the room more effectively if she’d stripped off her flannel jammies and started doing the can-can.  Duncan looked very startled…then very thoughtful.  Alex’s mouth dropped open, and stayed open.  Only Jobey managed actual speech.  “Toronto?” he repeated, frowning furiously as he looked back and forth between her and Duncan.  “Got something you want to tell us, Sprout?”

“Milly and I are leaving for Toronto tomorrow,” Duncan said, stepping boldly into the breech.  “We were going to tell you two about it at breakfast.  We’re going to see if we can find Amanda.  Or at least, that was the plan as of last night.”  He looked at Milly, a touch of humor sparkling in his eyes.  “Now, apparently, we’re going to stop over in Bordeaux first.”

“It just makes sense,” Milly agreed.  She yawned softly as she joined the men standing around Alex’s desk.  “As Jobey says, we need more information.  Talking to Reverend Bell seems like the logical next step to take.”

Jobey looked worried, but seemed to be giving the idea some serious consideration.  Alex, however, pushed himself to his feet, shaking his head vehemently.  “Oh, no,” he said.  “Absolutely not.  MacLeod can go if he wants…I learned long ago that nothing *I* can say can ever talk him out of anything he’s determined to do.  But not you, Pixie.  It’s far too dangerous.”

“But don’t you see?  I’m the only one it *isn’t* dangerous for,” Milly countered.  “These people…at least two of them are Watchers.  Watchers who knew you, Alex.  They knew Jobey and Duncan, too.  I’m going to bet that they could still recognize you on sight today, no matter what name you used or what kind of crazy costume you wore. But they’ve never met me.”  Milly shrugged.  “I can contact Reverend Bell, pretend to be the daughter of one of his old parishioners…”

“Ah, you might want to rethink that,” Duncan interrupted.  His amused sparkled had become an all-out gleam.  “Reverend Bell’s church was almost exclusively attended by African Americans, Milly.  You don’t quite have the right look to pull that off.”

“Who said anything about genetic daughter?  I could have been adopted, or a foster child.  God know I had plenty of experience to play *that* role convincingly. But I do take your point.”  She shrugged, completely unconcerned.  “Maybe I should pretend to be the editor of the alumni magazine for whatever college the Reverend Bell attended, then, looking to do a feature on distinguished former grads.  Or a recent transplant to Bordeaux who wants to start some kind of group for other American ex-pats.  I don’t care what the story is--if any of you gentlemen have any better ideas, I’d be happy to adopt them.  All I need is a plausible excuse for talking to him.  And maybe for getting into his house and poking around his home office a little, too.”

“Ridiculous.  Out of the question,” Alex snapped.  “Joe, tell the girl.”  Jobey stayed silent.  Alex was shocked.  “Joe,” he said incredulously.  “Don’t tell me you actually approve of this…this suicide mission?”

“I don’t know,” Jobey said slowly. “I don’t think it *is* a suicide mission, Methos.”  Alex gaped at him.  Joe shrugged apologetically.  “Milly’s learned a lot, training with Duncan these last few months.  And she’s always *been* smart.  If she says she can do this, I think we have to trust that she can.”  He gave Duncan a long, slow, measuring glance.  “Besides.  Mac will be with her.  If things go badly…well.  There isn’t anybody else on this earth I’d rather see at Milly’s side.  Anyone I’d trust more to get her out of a bad situation unscathed.”

Jobey’s eyes met Duncan’s in a long, long look.  *He knows,* Milly thought.  *Jobey knows.  I thought he did before, but now I’m sure.  He knows, and he approves.  Thank god thank god thank god…*  “Thank you, Joe,” Duncan said softly. 

Alex had thrown up his hands.  He closed his eyes for a moment, clearly counting to ten…and then to twenty.  When he’d gotten himself under some semblance of control, he faced Milly.  “Milly,” he said forcefully.  “Do you have any idea what sorts of things the people who really want my head are capable of?  The kinds of tortures they are willing to inflict on anyone I love, just on the merest *chance* that it might draw me out of hiding?”

“I do,” Milly answered, just as bluntly.  “Duncan hasn’t pulled any punches during my training, Alex, either literally or figuratively.  I know exactly what kinds of challenges await me, once I leave this island.  He thinks I’m ready to face them.  And so do I.”  She met the old Immortal’s eyes squarely.  “You can’t keep me wrapped in cotton forever, Alex.  And we need to know what these old Watcher friends of yours are really after.  We do.  Or we’ll never stop being afraid.”

For a moment, Alex looked as angry and incredulous as if she’d reached out and slapped him.  Then, ever so slowly, the fire faded from his eyes.  It was replaced by a stony calm. “You will go armed at all times,” he said, in a teacher-ly tone that brooked no argument.  “I know you can’t smuggle weapons through airport security, but your first stop in any city you land in will be to acquire a suitable handgun, and to acquire or forge whatever paperwork you need to carry it legally.  The last thing I want to do is to fly to France or Canada to bail you out of jail because you got picked up for unlicensed carrying.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Milly said meekly. 

Duncan stepped in beside her.  “I’ll make sure of it too, Methos,” he said.  “Help her get the paperwork, and see to it that she’s always suitably armed.  You can trust me about that.”

“Hmmm,” Alex said non-committally.  “And either you or Duncan will *call* me, every six hours on the dot, without fail…you will acquire brand new phones in Barbados just so you can do so safely.  I’d give you a few of my untraceable burner phones to use, but their reception is notoriously unreliable, and I want you to have *good* phones for this, with good screens and accurate GPS and all the other things you need to travel safely.  Besides, I used up my last one yesterday, letting MacLeod call around after Amanda.”  He frowned.  “In fact, I might go with you as far as Barbados, just to buy a few more.  We can exchange numbers right before you fly out.  I’m fairly sure Paulo can fit all three of us into his plane…”

“Four of us,” Jobey said.  “I’m going, too.  I’ll ride in the cargo compartment if I have to.”

“Jo-oe…”

“Meth-os,” Jobey sarcastically mimicked his tone, then softened.  “I’m not staying here on my own, going out of my mind wondering what’s happening without any real way to find out.  Besides.  Do you have any idea how long it’s been since you’ve taken me out for dinner?  You owe me the biggest, tastiest lobster in Barbados.”

Alex looked disgusted, but he nodded his head meekly.   “Fine,” he said.  “As long as it can be room service, delivered to a relatively safe and well-secured hotel room.  I’m too jumpy to risk a really public place like a big beach side restaurant, Joe.   In fact, I’m too jumpy for any of this.  But since it appears that no matter what I say, I’m going to be over-ruled…” He sighed.  “Go figure out your reservations, Pix.  I’ll contact Paulo, make sure that he’s here to pick us all up in the morning.  In the meantime, I suggest that you get packed and then spend the rest of the day getting all the rest you can.  I’ll go down to the underground safe and see about setting you up with fresh passports.  I’ll pack up a small suitcase with euros, too.  You’re going to want plenty of cash.”

“Yes, Alex,” Milly said, and fled—glad for the chance to escape before Alex could make any more parental demands.  Just as she rounded the doorway, though, she heard Duncan speak, and hesitated.  “She really is ready, Methos,” he said.  “You can trust me on that.  I wouldn’t risk her if I didn’t think she was.”    

It seemed a long time before Alex answered. When he did, his voice was heavy with strain.  “I know you do, MacLeod,” he said.  “Go on, now.  You have packing to do, as well.”

“Methos…”

“Just *go*, MacLeod.” 

And Milly, a bit ashamed of herself for eavesdropping, went on her way before he could.

***

There were many places in the house where emergency cash could be found.  Methos was nothing if not thorough, and had at least forty or fifty thousand USD (or its equivalent in other currencies) stashed in each of his home’s various weapons caches, just in case.  Today, though, he made straight for the huge, bank-vault-ish walk-in safe in the basement, the one located behind a hidden panel at the back of Mr. Media Mogul Junior’s beloved practice range, which happened to be the place where the really *scary* amounts of cash were kept.    Methos let himself in, swung the unassuming little airline-approved roller bag he’d brought with him onto a table, and began to pack it quickly with practiced hands.

He wondered, ironically, just how many times he’d done this in the past, packed up various bags with money for storage or for flight.  He also wondered whether or not Milly had ever seen that much cash in her entire life before, and just how big a bribe it was going to take to get the bag through airport security unremarked upon—well, that wasn’t his problem; it was MacLeod’s.  Perhaps the Highlander could make up some story about having an extraordinarily good time in one of the island casinos, and spread some around to the security guards for luck.  Methos was tempted to simply send them each with a wallet-full of very large denomination bills instead--it would have been far less conspicuous.  But he’d learned the hard way that almost no one could break a thousand dollar bill these days, and asking a bank to do it had a way of making one very conspicuous.  So smaller bills it was, fifties and hundreds at the most.  *And at least a few thousand in Canadian dollars, too, just in case they arrive in Toronto too late at night to change it,* Methos thought, hands working on auto pilot.  *And enough Barbadian dollars to pay for their tickets and first night’s lodging, too—or would US dollars be better?  Fuck it.  I’m ready for a truly global currency, although I suppose it’s still several centuries away.  Well.  At least it’s better than being forced to run for your life with all your worldly wealth in gold.  Now THAT was inconvenient.  Damnably heavy, too…*

“Adam.  Joe is waiting in the firing range.  He wants to know if you’d like some company.”

“Let him in, please, Minerva.  Security override three-zero-five-six.”

The safe door cracked obligingly open.  Joe entered and stood just inside it, silently radiating husbandly concern and…something else. Disappointment?  Or could it just be understanding?  The safe was too dimly lit and Methos too tired to be able to tell for sure.  “You don’t have to stand there like a ghost, Joe,” Methos said wearily.  “I already know I made a complete fool of myself upstairs.  Feel free to tell me so, if that’s the reason you came down.”

“I didn’t come down to tell you that you’d acted like a fool, Methos.”  Joe took a few paces forward, into the dim pool of light cast by one of the safe’s scant light bulbs.  And it was just loving understanding on his face, thank god.  Not disappointment at all.  “I came to tell you that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

Methos stopped packing.  He put his hands on the table, letting his entire upper body sag over the suitcase and piles of cash.  “Yes, very brave,” he agreed.  “Sending a thirty-six-year-old child out to face dangers *I* wouldn’t face willingly for all the tea in China.  I expect my medal of valor will be arriving any moment, now.”

Joe made a small, exasperated, my-god-I-love-you-but-sometimes-you-really-can-be-dumb noise.  “Idiot,” he said fondly.  “*Now* you really are acting like a fool.  Well, no, that’s not quite true.  You’re acting like a very brilliant man who’s made two very incorrect assumptions.”

“And they are?”

“Misconception number one:  Milly is not a child.  I can see why you stumbled into it; I made the same mistake myself, until just a few weeks ago.  And it isn’t really any wonder that I did.  After all, she is less than half my age.  Hell, she’s less than one percent of yours.  But the truth is, she stopped being a child a long, long time ago.”  Methos flinched.  Joe took another few steps toward him.  “Misconception number two: you aren’t sending her anywhere.  She’s going, whether you want her to or not.  You’re just…choosing not to fight the inevitable.”

“Is *that* what you call it, Joe?”

“Yup. That’s what I call it.” Jobey raised his hand expressively.  “Because let’s face it…you *could* have fought it.  Could have argued and schemed and belittled both her and MacLeod, and you’re good enough at all three that it might just have worked.  You could have gotten Milly to doubt herself enough to stay for a few more days or weeks.  But you didn’t.  You chose to support her, instead.  And that would be why I said what you did upstairs was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”    Another few steps, and Jobey was standing at Methos’s side.  His voice was warm with compassion.  “Neither MacLeod nor Milly will ever know it, probably, but I do.  Letting Milly go without a fight is the bravest thing you could possibly do.”

Methos opened his mouth…and closed it again, completely at a loss for what to say.  Joe moved in closer still, standing behind his back and wrapping his arms around Methos’s waist.  Methos stayed where he was, feeling Joe’s warmth holding him from behind and the cool, sturdy stability of the table steadying him in front.  “Joe.  I need you to tell me the truth,” he said at long last.  “What do you really think their chances are?  Of coming back from this trip in one piece?”

“Honestly?  I don’t know.”  Joe gave him one more squeeze and let him go, moving around to lean on the table.  “I’m worried, of course.  But I know two things you don’t.  Two things that make me rate their chances higher than you do, I think.”  Methos looked at him inquisitively.  Joe held up a finger.  “First…you never knew Reverend Bell.  I did. And he was one of the good ones, Methos.  I know you’re going to tell me that people change and you can never predict what they’re going to do today based on what they were forty years ago, but…truly, Methos, I can’t imagine*his* basic character ever changing.  Even if he somehow became convinced that you were the Antichrist himself and needed to be taken out, I can’t see him harming an innocent like Milly to do it.”   Joe regarded him gravely.  “I think both Milly and Mac are safe with him.  At least for long enough to have a conversation.  Bell’s not the type to declare war without even giving the other side a fair hearing.”

“And you’re willing to bet Milly’s life on that, Joe?”

“Not entirely.  But that and the other thing are enough to tip the balance for me.”  Methos gave him his best *Oh yes? Do go on* face.  “I’ve seen Milly practicing in the dojo with Mac,” Joe said.  “You haven’t.”

Methos raised his eyebrow skeptically.  “She’s that good?”

“Yes and no.   You can’t master a martial art in two months, Methos.  It’s going to take Milly years for the moves to feel like second nature.  Probably even longer to build up the kind of strength and stamina Mac expects all his students to have.  But the focus?  The self-discipline?  *That* Milly took to as if she’d already spent a lifetime in the dojo.  Even Mac was impressed.”  For a second Joe smirked, as if considering a highly amusing mental picture Methos couldn’t see.  After a moment, though, he let it go.  “Yes, Methos, she’s that good,” he said seriously.  “She’s got the intelligence to assess a threat and the confidence to address it instantly, no time wasted in second guessing.  Plus, you’ve seen for yourself how much her marksmanship has improved.  So yeah, I think I have to agree with Mac.  Milly is as ready as she can be.”

“Mac has done a good job with her,” Methos admitted grudgingly.  “I first noticed a big change…oh, it must have been four or five weeks ago, now.  Milly started carrying herself differently, head higher, shoulders back.  And I can’t remember the last time she looked like a startled rabbit when I came into the room unexpectedly.  So whatever Mac’s been doing, it’s clearly been making her feel much more confident.  I--”  Joe’s smirk had gotten very strained, like he was trying very hard not to laugh.  Methos glared at him with annoyance.  “What?”

“Nothing,” Joe said quickly.  “But you’re right.  She *is* much more confident.  And that was the only thing she needed, really.  Milly has always been strong, Methos.  The difference is that now she finally knows it.”  He cocked his head thoughtfully to one side.  “You want to know how I know she’s finally come to terms with everything, all the craziness knowing us has drawn her into?  The one thing that tells me she’s really, really accepted what being a mortal in an Immortal’s world means, and is ready for whatever life throws at her next?”

“What?”

“She’s stopped doing her laundry by hand.”

Methos blinked several times.  Then he melted, needing to grab onto the very useful table to support himself through the reaction of his relief.  “Oh, god, Joe,” he said feelingly.  “That means…that means she feels like she’s in control again.  Doesn’t have to make unnecessary work for herself just so she can feel like she’s got power over *something*.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s…” Methos didn’t even try to finish his sentence.  He just let the big fat tear that suddenly splashed down his cheek do the talking instead.

Joe gathered him in again, from the front this time.  They stood, wrapped in each other’s embrace, the fruits of a lifetime’s worth of a financial labors lying stacked around them, unheeded.  “We’ve been lucky, haven’t we?” Joe said into Methos’s ear.  “Lucky in a lot of things, but especially in Milly.  Lucky to have known her then, and even luckier to know her now.  It wasn’t something I’d ever thought we’d get.”

“I know.”  Methos took a deep shaky breath.  “God, I wish we hadn’t had to leave her, Joe.  There are so many things we could have done for her, if we’d been able to stay.  Kept her safe, helped her grow strong…”

“She made herself strong,” Joe answered, and Methos had to bend his head to that, because it was true.  Joe pulled back slightly, squeezing his hand.  “You’ve got to promise me one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I mean it.  You really do have to promise. It’s going to be hard for you.  But you have to do it, just the same.”

“Good heavens, Joe.”  Methos cocked his head, regarding his husband curiously.  “Now you’re really starting to worry me.  What kind of promise could possibly be that bad?”  Joe just shook his head.    Methos frowned.  He cupped Joe’s face in his hand, making his voice soft.  “Hey.  Whatever it is, we can face it together.  Just like we’ve faced everything else.”  Joe still looked hesitant.  “Joe.  Tell me what it is.”

“All right.  But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  Joe took a deep breath, then looked up at Methos wryly.  “You’ve got to promise me that when Mac finally gets up the courage to tell you that he and Milly have fallen in love, you won’t try to take his head.”

“WHAT?!?” 


	9. back and forth

Methos found MacLeod practicing katas in the gymnasium, stripped to the waist and looking like the impossible erotic god he was, damn him.  It didn’t make Methos want to take him to bed.  He was way past that, thank heaven.  But the sight did feed his anger, as simply one more example of the way the Highlander seemed to have been created by a vengeful universe specifically to plague him.  Methos watched swelling muscles dance under bronzed, sweat-sheened skin, glowering silently, until Duncan came to an end.  Of course the Highlander had known he was there all long, had felt his Presence long before he’d even entered the room, but his lip quirked anyway when he turned and saw the way Methos had been watching him.  He toweled himself off and looked pointedly at the rack where Methos’s collection of practice swords hung, eyebrow raised in blatant invitation. 

For a moment Methos almost took him up on it.  The urge to beat the man senseless was almost overwhelming…but no.  That wouldn’t please Joe.   So he slunk out onto the floor instead, hands jammed deeply into his jeans pockets, sullen as a child.  “Do you know what your problem is, MacLeod?”

Duncan blinked.  For the barest fraction of a heartbeat, he looked startled.  Then he started gathering up the towels and other equipment he’d used during his workout.  “Probably not,” he said.  “But I’m sure I can count on you to tell me, Methos.”

Methos ignored this.  He came closer.  “You think of life as a gift.”

“That’s a problem?”

“Oh, yes.”  Methos nodded emphatically.  “It’s the main difference between us.  It took me years to really understand it, but now I do.  You think of life as a gift.  Whereas I…” He flashed his teeth, more an animal threat than a smile.  “I think of life as a *right*.”

“I don’t understand, Methos.”

“Don’t you?  It’s perfectly obvious to me,” Methos replied.  “You see life as this great and wonderful present, something you didn’t really deserve but were given anyway, something to be cherished and appreciated every day.  But me?  I don’t cherish life, MacLeod. I don’t romanticize it in the slightest.  And I’ve never even once been tempted to write an epic poem about its miraculous beauty.” His lip curled.  “I simply see it as *mine*.  Mine to hold onto, mine to defend.  Inalienable and forevermore.  And that is why the two of us have never been able to get along for long, MacLeod.  It always has been.”

Duncan looked…unsettled.  But only for a second.  The next, his jaw had hardened.   “If you mean,” he said tightly, walking to where the cleaning closet was built into one gymnasium wall, “that there are some things that I’m willing to give my head for, while there’s nothing on earth that *you* would...well, Methos.  All I can say is that I’m shocked it’s taken you this long to figure it out.  I’ve known for decades, now, just how…” He opened the cleaning closet door and tossed in the towel, slammed it viciously… “*committed* you are to preserving your own hide.”

“Yesss,” Methos hissed, ignored the clanging of the door.  “That’s exactly what I mean, MacLeod.  I am, one hundred percent and without any possibility of change, committed to staying alive.  No matter the cost.  No matter the price.”  Duncan gave his head a disgusted shake and began walking back to mat, where an assortment of free weights he’d been using still lay.  Methos followed him.  “And *you* will persist in seeing that commitment as cowardice.”

“I’ve never called you a coward, Methos.”

“No.”  Methos agreed.  “But sometimes you don’t have to say things out loud to communicate them perfectly well.  I *know* you think I’m a coward, MacLeod.  I know that my…commitment…to living disgusts you, in every fiber of your being.”  He laughed bitterly.  “The thing you’ve never adequately considered is that I might be secretly applying the same word to you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I think you heard,” Methos snarled.  “Your ‘death before dishonor’ mindset strikes me as both childish and cowardly in the extreme, Highlander.  Because the sad truth is this—sometimes, laying down your head for a cause is the *easy* thing to do.  Sometimes, going along and staying alive in a world of pain and injustice you can do nothing about takes even *more* bravery than making one last great final stand.  My god.  If you only knew…”

He broke off, shakily realizing that he’d said more than he meant.  Because the Highlander, rather than being angry, was looking at him with…fuck…pity.  “Methos,” he said gently, and damn it all, the pity was in his voice, too.  “We have had this argument many times before. Many, many times.  And—always assuming I don’t lose my head to a pointless cause in the meantime, of course--we will probably have it many times again.  The best either one of us has ever been able to do is to get the other to agree to disagree.  Was there some special reason why you wanted to have it again today?”

“Yes,” Methos snapped.  He took a deep breath, rallying himself to go back to the original point.  “You see life as a gift.  That means that you don’t think of it as really *yours*.  You are always, every minute of every day, willing to return it back to sender, if you think the cause is important enough to warrant it.  Which means that one of these days, one of these minutes, you will find one that is.  And then—you’ll die.”  Duncan opened his mouth, as if he was about to speak.  Methos forestalled him with one raised hand.  “Which is, as I’m sure you are about to tell me, none of my business.  And you’d be right.  It isn’t.  Joe will grieve for you horribly when you die, so ideally, I’d put off that oh-so-special moment for as long as he still lives.  But after that, Highlander?  When Joe has left this world for good, and it’s finally just you and me? I would never dream of asking you to abandon your ‘honor’ then.  Please, do feel free to run after as many hopeless causes then as you see fit.  I won’t lift a finger to stop you.”  Against his will, his hands clenched, and something in his soul clenched, too.  “But I will not allow you to drag Milly along with you.”

A small flicker of understanding illuminated the Highlander’s face.  “So that’s what this about,” he said.  “Milly wanting to go with me to find Amanda.  And to talk to Reverend Bell.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”  Methos shook his head.  “Although I do think that little plan is utter and total lunacy, now that you bring it up.  Milly’s not Joe, Highlander.  She’s lived with Immortality for _less than nine months._ And no matter how many katas you’ve taught her, she’s hardly a blooded combat veteran yet.  *I* think this little trip of yours is pretty much the textbook definition of A Very Bad Idea.”    He shrugged.  “But I’m nothing if not long-sighted.  The girl has to try herself against the perils of the real world eventually.  And Joe has convinced me that the odds of her coming back in one piece are much higher than I originally gave her credit for.  So ill-advised as I think your little journey is, that’s not what brought me here today.”  Methos shook his head. “No.  I’m actually, much more worried about what will happen later on.”

He looked the Highlander directly in the eye.  And Duncan, for once, did not misunderstand.  He turned slightly red and looked down at his hands, turning the light hand weight over and over.  After a moment, he swallowed and looked back up.  “So you know, then,” he said softly.  “Milly and I had decided not to tell you about us until later.  After we returned.”

Methos felt something in his heart go cold.   Up until that very moment, he didn’t think he’d actually believed Joe was right.  “About *us*?” he repeated, incredulity plain.  “You and Milly are an ‘us’?”

“Yes, Methos.  Milly and I are very much an ‘us’.” Duncan nodded stiffly.  “Like I said, we weren’t going to tell you for a while yet.  But you might as well known now.  The moment we’ve found Amanda and settled this business with the prophecy and the Deposit Makers—however it ends up being settled—Milly and I will be leaving for Scotland.”

“Good god.  Whatever for?”

“Why do you think, Methos?  To be together.  To show her where I was born.  To start a new life.”  Some of Duncan’s stiffness fled.  “I love her, Methos.”

“For fuck’s sake, Highlander!”  Methos began pacing back and forth agitatedly, hands tearing at his hair.  “How gullible do you think I am?  _You have known each other for a little more than two months._ Two!”

“I know, I know,” Duncan said quickly.  “I know how fast it’s been.  But sometimes, that’s the way it happens.  One look, and you know…”  Methos gave one rude snort of disbelief.  The Highlander held out his hands placatingly.  “She’s special, Methos.  The person I’ve been waiting for ever since Tessa died.  Maybe for even for longer than that.”

“Oh, yes, wonderful,” Methos said sarcastically.  “Love at first sight.  How very romantic.  Except for one thing—we’re both old enough to know that there really isn’t any such thing.”  He stopped his pacing and stepped close to Duncan, jabbing his finger accusingly into the Highlander’s chest.  “There’s lust at first sight, of course.  And desperation.  But not love.  Love only happens when you actually know someone, Highlander.  Up until then, it’s just wishful thinking and a lot of hormonally induced self-delusion.”

“Oh, really.”  Duncan’s eyes glittered dangerously.  “You’re one to talk, Methos.  Exactly how long did it take you to fall in love with Alexa?  Two days?  Three?  Or was that just ‘hormonally induced self-delusion’, too?” 

“That was different!”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes, it wa…oh, fuck it.  All right, if you must know.  No!  No, it wasn’t different at all!”  Methos tossed up his arms and paced away, shaking his head furiously.  “You want the truth, Highlander?  The honest, painful, completely unvarnished truth?  I *came* to love Alexa.  I really did.  She was kind and beautiful and noble-souled, and so unbelievably brave about facing her fate.  No man could have resisted losing his heart to her, not once he’d known her for any length of time.  But during those first few days?  When I made such an unmitigated, unstoppable ass of myself and did everything I could to sweep her off her feet, taking her away from her doctors and her friends and everything else she’d ever known?  Yes, MacLeod.  *That* was self-delusion first class.  One tenth was me deluding myself into thinking that I’d found my soul-mate, on the very slimmest of evidence.  And nine tenths was simply my subconscious looking for any excuse to get me the hell away from *you*.” 

Duncan’s eyes flashed furiously.  Methos held up his hand.  “And no, I didn’t tell you that because I was trying to insult you,” he said.  “I *told* you that because I need you to know that I understand.  And also, because I need you to know how seriously I take all this.  Believe me.”  He laughed harshly.  “I would never have cracked open my heart and dragged out Alexa’s memory, let alone my regrets over the way I treated her, if I didn’t take this seriously.  Very, very seriously, indeed.”

The fire slowly died out of Duncan’s gaze.  Twice he started to speak and stopped himself, clearly biting back the words.  Finally, he threw his hands up in a defeated gesture.  “Maybe we’re just using the word ‘love’ in different ways, Methos,” he said helplessly.  “Of course I don’t love Milly the same way I’d love a woman I’d already lived with for forty years.  But who does?  Whoever does, in the beginning?  What I know about her now is all I *need* to know for now, all anyone ever knows when they first fall in love.  I know…she makes me smile.  I know I wake up every morning feeling grateful that I get to spend most of that day with her.   Of course I don’t know how things will work out between us.  But I know that I want to find out.  And I have a very strong feeling that if she lets me, one day I’ll blink and find that those forty years have gone by without me even noticing.”  He lowered his hands.  “Maybe you did take Alexa away from everything she ever knew, Methos.  But you gave her a thousand things she *didn’t* know to replace them.  Better things.  Things she had never even dared to dream about experiencing.  And don’t forget, I was there.  Not just after you lost her, but there at the very beginning, too.  And I know that she made you smile, and I know you felt grateful just to be at Joe’s watching her work across the room, and I know that if there had been any way to give her forty years you would have—yes, even then, right at the very start, before you’d so much as worked up the courage to ask her out.  And so I’d say it was love, not self-delusion, after all.  However crazy all the other circumstances might have been.”

It was…generous.  It was extraordinarily generous, in a way that made it almost impossible for Methos to hold onto his anger.  Without it, Methos found himself sinking down onto a nearby pile of stacked-up workout mats, suddenly lacking the energy it took to hold himself fully upright.  “And that’s how you feel about Milly,” he said. 

Duncan nodded, solemnly, only once.  Methos felt himself sag even further, arms barely propping himself up against his knees.  “In the name of all that’s holy, MacLeod,” he said, with far more weariness then vehemence.  “Wasn’t it only yesterday that you were pledging your undying devotion to *me*?”

Duncan tensed visibly.  But his voice remained calm.  “Thirty years ago is hardly ‘yesterday’,” he reminded Methos gently.  “And you were the one who was always telling me it wasn’t love I was really feeling.  Just loneliness.” His lip twisted wryly.  “You’d think you’d be relieved that I finally came to the same conclusion.  And moved on.”

“I would be, if I didn’t think you were in serious danger of making the same mistake,” Methos said earnestly.  “For god’s sake, Mac.  I know just how badly the twenty-first century has treated you so far.  I know how lonely you’ve been, how desperately you’ve been searching for someone—anyone—to share your Immortality with.  And I know just how exhilarating and seductive it can be when you think you’ve finally found that someone.  I just…Christ.”  He shook his head.  “Of all the women—all the people!—on this earth to choose, why, why, why did the person you finally picked have to be *my daughter*?  Don’t you think that fact has just a tiny bit of significance?”

Duncan stiffened.  That flare of rage was back in his eyes, making them perilously dark.  But when he spoke, it wasn’t with anger.  No, it was with sheer incredulity. “Milly isn’t your daughter, Methos.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.  She isn’t Joe’s, either.  The two of you didn’t raise her.  You didn’t change her diapers or help her suffer through tenth grade calculus or even send her a card for her high school graduation, like any second cousin or great Aunt would.  You just lived next door to her for a while.   A very short while, really.  And when things got bad…when she was facing the biggest challenge of her life…you just walked off and left her.”  MacLeod shook his head, all sanctimonious judgment.  “Not the way a true father would act, is it?”

“I—“  Methos slowly straightened his spine, incredulity of his own filling every muscle.  “I don’t believe this.  I really. Do not.  *Believe* this.”  And now the anger was back…except this time it wasn’t the warm, explosive anger he’d walked in with.  No.  This anger was cold, and sickening, swimming around like an entire school of sadistic goldfish within his gut.  “Do you have any idea what happened the day Joe and I left Las Cruces, MacLeod?  Any idea at all?”

“No,” MacLeod answered flatly.  “Milly hasn’t trusted me with the whole story yet.  I think someday she might—but I’m not going to press.  And god knows that neither you nor Joe has ever seen fit to fill me in.  So all I know is what I learned at the time, following the story in the newspapers with Amanda.”   He caught Methos’s ghastly, staring eyes and waved his hand irritably.  “And yes, I know that was the day you discovered the white Token Bearers had infiltrated the Watchers, and I know that you had to fight another three Challenges the same week before you and Joe finally managed to drop out of sight.  I *know* all that, Methos.   I know how dangerous it would have been for you to go back for her.  But that’s my point, really.”  He shrugged.  “Immortals don’t have any business trying to be parents.  What we are always gets in the way.  And I know you knew that, and never really thought of yourself as Milly’s father.  Because if you had…if you really, really had…you would have moved heaven and earth to get back to her.  Even if it took a year.  Even if it took *ten.* And you didn’t.  She had to find you.”

“MacLeod!”

“It’s the simple truth, Methos!”  MacLeod returned hotly.  “But don’t get on your high horse.  I’m not *blaming* you.  God knows, Milly certainly doesn’t seem to.  Which just makes it even more obvious.  Because if you really *were* her father, and you had left her like that…she’d be pissed as hell.  She isn’t.  And that tells me that she always knew the truth, just as much as you did.”  MacLeod shook his head self-righteously.  “No.  I don’t know just what you and Joe and Milly are, exactly, but parents and child isn’t it.  My god, you didn’t even bother to Plex her once a year to find out if she was still alive, or if she’d ever gotten her PhD.  You barely even know her at all…”

“And you do?”  Oh, yes, that was definitely fury in his stomach, giving Methos the strength to coldly draw himself back to his feet.  “Do you have any idea what Milly really wants out of life, Highlander?  The things she wants to accomplish, the places she wants to go? She might want children, MacLeod, and as you just so virtuously pointed out, Immortals have no business being parents.  You know you never…”

Duncan looked startled.  “Milly can’t have children, Methos.”

Methos felt all the blood drain from his face.  “What?”

“She had some kind of reproductive cancer.  Cervical, I think.  Caught it early, but had to have a total hysterectomy anyway while she was still in her twenties.  She says she’s never looked back.”  Now Duncan looked puzzled.  “Didn’t you and Joe know?”

Methos simply stared. 

He hadn’t realized until that very moment how much he’d been looking forward to Milly having a baby or three someday.  To being “Uncle Alex” as the rugrats grew up, and then to hovering in the background as they in turn found mates and had more children, acting as a silent guardian throughout the generations.  The unfairness of it—to both himself and to Milly—hit him like a ton of bricks.  And how awful was it that she’d had a reproductive cancer, the same disease that had killed Alexa, and he’d never even known?  There was so much he had learned that might have helped her…so much he might have done… “No,” Methos said, and his voice wasn’t dull…it was practically robotic, it was so completely devoid of life.  “I didn’t know at all.”

“Then are we done here?  I’m meeting Milly for one last weapons lesson after lunch.  And I really need to get a few things together, first.”  Methos stayed silent.  MacLeod looked at him pityingly. “Look, I know she’s special to you,” he said.  “And of course you care about what happens to her.  But she’s a woman now, not a child.  I think you have to trust her to choose what she wants for herself.” His lip twisted self mockingly.  “Even if what she wants happens to include me.” 

This truth—after a few minutes way too full of truths—was incontrovertible, of course.  Methos couldn’t argue with it.  He felt as if they’d been sparring, and MacLeod had kicked him squarely in the solar plexus—knocking him to floor and leaving him limp and reeling, all the oxygen ruthlessly removed from his lungs.  All he really wanted to do was pull himself up off the ground and slink away to nurse his wounds.

But he could make one more try, one more attempt at letting MacLeod know that he didn’t have absolute authority in this.  That no matter what, Milly would be protected.  Perhaps a little story was in order—he could offer the cautionary tale of Brian Smith.  Methos let his face harden, let his eyes become flinty and cold.  “Just one more thing, MacLeod.  Do you know what happened to the last man to hurt Milly sexually?”

Once again Duncan frowned, looking puzzled.  “You mean that creep on her PhD committee who wouldn’t approve her dissertation unless she slept with him?  She broke his nose with a bust of Alexander von Humboldt, then went to the board and got his tenure revoked.  Why?”

And Methos, made speechless by the depth of his own ignorance, quietly took himself away.

***

“Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

There were light footsteps following behind Methos as he paced down the hall.  Methos didn’t even have to look to see who they belonged to.  All he had to do was ask himself who was the last person on earth he wanted to have overheard the end of that conversation in the gym…and yup, sure enough, it was Milly’s light rhythmic tread that he heard.  There was no point in fighting it; some days the universe simply decided to amuse itself by making you look like a fool in as many ways as possible, and there was nothing any man could do to stop it.  Of course, Methos thought ruefully, today his own behavior had given the universe a pretty fair head start, so who was he to complain?  He swiveled around slowly and met Milly’s eyes, bracing himself for the worst.

The worst didn’t come.  Much to his surprise, Milly looked far more amused than upset.  “You know,” she said, sitting down on one of the slender hallway benches and gracefully arranging her dress skirt over her knees. “I still haven’t gotten used to hearing you swear.”

Methos frowned.  This was not at all what he’d expected to her say.  “Haven’t you?”

“No.”  She shook her head, and he got the oddest impression that she was trying not to smile.  “The Alex Porter I knew never did, or at least not where I could hear.   Didn’t you tell me—more than once--that four letter words were ‘the refuge of the linguistically incompetent’?”

“Ah.  The incredible hypocrisy of all adults who deal with children,” he said, giving in and sinking down onto the bench next to her.  “Never trust anything *anyone* says when they are busy trying to be a role model, Pix.  You were absorbing my vocabulary like a sponge, even picking up my accent; I knew that if I send you home with some of my more colorful linguistic habits Margaretta would have called in the priest.  So I was ‘good’, at least by Jobey and Margaretta’s definitions, and gave you a convenient lie to explain it.”  He frowned thoughtfully.  “Although I’m pretty sure I would have revisited the topic when you got older.  Profane words are profane exactly because they have great power—a wise speaker doesn’t ignore them, just picks the right times and places to make use of them.  I always thought it was a shame I could never get my superiors at the U to let me give at least one lecture on profanity per semester in every language I taught.  I’m fairly certain I would have discussed it with you eventually.  If we’d only had time…”

He trailed off, thinking with sudden knife-cut sharpness of just what had ended their time together.  From the quick flash of pain in Milly’s dark eyes, she was remembering it, too.  God.  He really *did* have a severe case of foot-in-mouth-itis today, didn’t he?  “Sorry,” he said repentantly.  Then: “How much did you hear?”

She did him the honor of not even trying to pretend that she didn’t know what he was asking.  “Of your conversation with Duncan?  Not much, really.  Just the last minute or so.”  Methos nodded bleakly.  It was better than he’d thought, but still more than bad enough.  Milly was quiet for a long moment.  Then she said, cautiously:  “Alex.  Just what *did* happen to the last man to hurt me sexually?”

He hunched his shoulders.  “Apparently, you got him fired for sexual harassment.  Right after you broke his nose with a bust of the Father of Modern Geography.”

“Who, that creep on my dissertation committee?”  Milly gave an unladylike snort.  “He didn’t hurt me…he just pissed me off.  In a way, I’m almost glad he did.  Turns out he’d pulled the same crap on pretty much every other female candidate he’d ever run across.  When we all finally got together, we were quite the powerful force.  You wouldn’t believe how strong the Old Girl Network can be, especially at that level of academia.  I could have gotten a job at pretty much any university in the US after that, I think.  I only settled on UNM because I wanted to give something back.”  She shook her head.  “No.  I meant the last man to *really* hurt me.  That you knew about, at least.  Brian Smith.”

Ah, god.  Methos didn’t really want to answer that question.  But he’d known even since Milly first came back into their lives that she would ask it someday.  And now was probably as good a time to answer it as any.  “He died.”

“You killed him?”

“No.  Joe did.  I just held his coat.”  He hesitated, wondering if he should be completely honest, and decided that she deserved nothing less. “But I would have, if Joe hadn’t.”

Milly was quiet for a long time, digesting this.  “I suppose I already knew that,” she said.  “You were the one who told me that I would never have to worry about him again, the day you left.  And I didn’t, not once.  I just never really put it together…”  She looked at him, her eyes filled with the same vulnerability he remembered so clearly from the eleven-year-old version.  “Alex. Have you ever noticed that being grownup really sucks?”

He snorted humorlessly.  “Frequently,” he said.  “And before you ask, no.  Being as old as I am doesn’t help at all.”  She nodded, but quite distractedly, clearly lost in her own mind.  Methos swore again—internally, this time—and forced his voice to be gentle.  “What part of adulthood are you having particular trouble with today?”

“You,” she said bluntly.  “You, killing.  And, well, Jobey too, I suppose.  Except that somehow the thought of him being the one who did away with Mr. Smith doesn’t bother me as much, and I’ve been trying to figure out why.”

“Are you having any success?”

“Maybe.  At least I have a couple theories.” She laughed, a trifle bitterly. “It might be because I knew even as a little girl that Jobey was a warrior, had killed in Vietnam.  Or maybe, god help me…I don’t want this to true…maybe it’s because he’s disabled, and somehow that makes it all okay.  Like the stupid ape part of my brain that viscerally decides what is right and what is wrong is okay with Jobey being the one to kill Smith, because physically, it means that the man at least had an even chance…”

Methos smiled very unpleasantly, his fingers twisting on his chair in remembered expectation of what would have happened to Mr. Smith, if Joe hadn’t intervened.  “The stupid ape brain would be wrong, Milly. That first…encounter…you witnessed between Joe and Mr. Smith only ended the way it did because Joe was taken by surprise.  Given sufficient time for preparation, Joe is one of the deadliest mortals I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.”

“There,” Milly said.  “There it is, right there.  The difference between you.  That you can speak of knowing someone who kills as a ‘pleasure’.  Jobey never, ever would.”     Methos stared at her…and then slowly felt his face turn red with a startlingly keen, painful shame.  She was right, of course.  Joe never would.   “I know why Jobey would kill,” Milly said quietly.  “I understand why he killed in Vietnam—to protect his country and his unit.  And I understand why he killed Mr. Smith—to protect me, and every other little girl who might have come Smith’s way in the future.  I guess what I don’t understand, yet, is exactly why you would have done so.  If you had.”

Methos sat very, very still.  Every instinct he had was telling him that it was time to end this conversation, to simply bolt and get the hell out of there, as he had done almost every other time in his life when things became too much.  But if he did…he might as well end their relationship that very moment, send her off to Scotland with MacLeod and never expect to see or hear from her again.  That was the problem with having a policy of total honesty.  If you broke it so much as a single time, it killed any future sense of hope or trust, as completely as if you’d taken the relationship behind the metaphorical barn and shot it in the head.  “It’s really pretty simple, Pixie.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“Brian Smith hurt *you*.”  Methos held up his hand, forestalling her when she would have spoken.   “Hurt you in a way even crueler than simple murder would have been, in a way that can only be survived, never completely reversed or forgotten.  He didn’t do it because he was following some kind of orders or a higher plan—he wasn’t.  Nor did he have the excuse of ignorance—he knew exactly what kind of damage he was doing, and he did it anyway, for no other reason than that he could.  Long experience has taught me that the only real solution for coping with people willing to do such things for such a reason is to remove them from this world, as quickly and mercifully as possible.”

Her voice was very soft.  “And do you do this often?”

“Not as a general rule, no,” Methos said bluntly.  “There are simply too many; I’d never be able to stop.  And acting as judge, jury, and executioner has never been one of my favorite roles.  Even before I discovered just how ridiculously unfit I was to play any of them.”  He lowered his hand.  “But as I said, in this case, he hurt *you*.  Miss Millicent Carolita Gabriella Dido Alphonso, otherwise known as my Pixie.  And that was made all the difference.”  He waited patiently for a reaction.  There didn’t seem to be any.  “You may now run away screaming, if you like.”

“You know,” she said, “I think I just might have, a couple months ago.  Every ethics class I ever took in school informed me that one’s ethical judgement shouldn’t change just because a situation is personal.  But that was before I started learning how to use a gun.  And realized that the only circumstance under which I’d fire it without any hesitation—at least, I *think* it’s only the circumstance, I’m not so arrogant as to believe I’ll ever really know until I’m tested—is if something was threatening Duncan or Jobey or you.” 

Methos couldn’t help it.  He tried to keep the same tensely alert posture he’d had a moment before, but the feeling of relief was so strong he sagged almost unconsciously, in his chair.  Milly gave him a tiny smile.  “So.  Now that we’ve established that both of our personal definitions of ‘justifiable force’ includes protecting the other from harm, I have to ask…does yours include protecting me when I’m hurt emotionally as well?  In other words…do I have to worry about you taking Duncan’s head?  When the day comes that he leaves me to run off with the neighborhood babysitter?”

It was only half a joke, Methos knew.  “Duncan MacLeod is never going to leave you for the babysitter, Pix,” he said, irritation that this was, in fact, true, and he was therefore honor bound to give Duncan that much credit, making him sound rather aloof and harsh.  “Nor the secretary nor the pool boy nor anybody else.  Much as it irks me to have to say anything good about him sometimes, I have to say this: when Duncan MacLeod loves, he loves with his whole heart, faithful and endless and true.  He will stay with you until the end of your life.  And then mourn you as painfully as if he’d breathed his last breath when you breathed yours.”  Milly nodded softly, looking subdued.  Methos frowned.  His conversation with Duncan had reminded him of just how fragile Milly’s life really was, and how easily that last breath could have come before he’d found her again at all.  “Pix?”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you tell Joe and me about your cancer?” 

She looked up, clearly startled.  “You know about that?” 

Ah.  So she really hadn’t heard the whole conversation, then.  “Duncan told me.”

“Oh, he did, did he.” Her expressive eyes flashed again, this time with anger.  “We shall have to have a little chat about that, later.”

“It wasn’t really his fault, Pix.  He only brought it up because he thought I already knew.”

“Oh.”  Milly digested this.  “Well, we’ll still talk about it, then.  But maybe I won’t yell quite so loudly.  Or at least for not as long.”

Methos gave the requisite tiny smile, let it fall away.  “Why didn’t you tell us, Pixie?”

“Do you really want to know?”

*I have no idea.  Probably not.*  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“All right then.  Two reasons.”  Milly suddenly seemed incredibly weary.  She slumped a little on her bench.  “First, because the form of cervical cancer I had is 90% caused by human papillomavirus, which is sexually transmitted.  And even though I…was in some very bad, very painful situations while I was in foster care, I was lucky enough to have never have unprotected intercourse forced on me again.  And I was always fanatic about using gloves and dams and such as an adult.  So my HPV pretty much had to come from Brian Smith.  He only started using condoms after I got my period and he suddenly had to worry about getting me pregnant, you see.  I thought…I thought you and Jobey might have a difficult time processing that.  Especially Jobey.” 

Methos’s hand tightened on his knee.  Oh, god.  Not just Jobey.  Milly subtly straightened up.  “But mostly I didn’t tell you because…I really don’t think about it much anymore,” she said.  “Not that it wasn’t horrible at the time, but…well. It all feels like it happened a very long time ago, now.  I’ve been cancer free for more than ten years, Alex.  Besides.  I’d always known that I never wanted to have children, so I didn’t have to do any agonizing over that.  Nor did I ever think that the cancer was a result of my deep-seated emotional ambivalence over being female, as one really shit-for-brains therapist tried to tell me, or a lightning bolt sent by God to punish me for my wicked lesbian ways, which I heard from an equally-shit-for-brains colleague.  No.  It was just something that happened, one final consequence of Smith’s abuse that I had to deal with.  And once it was all over, when I’d finished the therapy and been declared cancer-free, I felt—purged, somehow.  Free.  Like the shoe I’d always been halfway waiting to drop finally had, and now I’d dealt with it and could just go on with my life unafraid.”  She looked at him a trifle fearfully.  “Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Methos said quickly, working hard to suppress his own emotions in favor of giving the validation she so clearly needed.   “It does, and I’m very glad to hear that you can look at it that way.  You amaze me, Pix.  You always have, and you always will.  I—“  He took a deep breath.  “I am just so, so sorry that neither Joe nor I ever realized what Brian Smith was doing to you.  We—when we left, we honestly thought he’d only attacked you that one time.  And we thought that we’d gotten home in time to stop it from going as far as it could have.  Joe--Joe spent an entire day throwing up in our hotel room, when that blogger’s report hit the net and we found out Smith had been hurting you for so long.  We really never had any idea.”

“I never blamed you for not knowing,” Milly said, harsh and quiet.  “Not then, and especially not once I grew up.  For god’s sake, you spent that entire year thinking that Jobey was *dying*, Alex.  And you were his only care giver.  Of course you didn’t have any time or energy to see anything but him.” She swallowed.    “But I did—I did sometimes wonder…”

Oh.  It was going to be a miracle if Methos survived this conversation without his heart breaking for good.  But that’s what love was, wasn’t it?  Feeling your heart break and doing your best to go on anyway?  “What did you wonder, Pixie?”

There were tears in her eyes. “Did you two never think about coming back to check on me, to find out if I was all right?  Not even once?”

He groaned low in his throat.  “Oh, god, Pixie.  Yes,” he said.  “Yes, of course we thought about it.  We were *going* to, that first day.  Joe looked at me and said ‘We have to go back for her’, and I agreed, Pixie.  We had a plan…” He felt himself go grey.  “But we are attacked by a Token Bearer that very day, the one that had the Watcher tattoo on her wrists…and from that point on all we could do was run.  There was no way we could have contacted you and still kept you safe.  Besides, we…we still thought that you’d have Gabriella.  We thought that the two of you would stay together and have a much better life, with Brian Smith gone and the lawyers giving you a good monthly stipend out of the proceeds of our estate.”  He took a deep breath.  “I still don’t entirely understand why you ended up in foster care at all, Pix.  I’d like to know, if you’d like to tell me.”

She looked down into her lap.  “My mother was arrested,” she said quietly.  “It turned out that Brian’s construction firm had been involved in all kinds of fraudulent activities, and of course my mother had been doing his books.  I still don’t know how much she knew about what was going on.  I’d like to think the fraud was mostly Brian’s idea, and my mom was just an innocent bystander.  But…given everything else…when she was finally convicted and went to prison, it was more than enough for her to lose permanent custody of me.  And then….” Milly sighed.  “He’d been hurting her too, you know.  Carefully, never in any way that would show, but it was more than bad enough. My mother thought that she’d been protecting me by giving in to him, and when she found out otherwise…well, she couldn’t cope.  She had a series of breakdowns in prison, and then was transferred to state mental facility.  They finally let her out when I was sixteen, and she overdosed on her amitriptyline prescription within a week.  It might have been an accident.  She didn’t leave a note.  But I have my doubts.”

“Oh, Pixie.”

“Uh-uh.  Don’t you dare start ‘oh, Pixie’-ing me,” Milly said, shaking her finger at him.  “And don’t start blaming yourself for not seeing what was happening to my mother, either.  One person, one person alone is responsible for that.  And today I finally learned for sure—with my mind, my heart has always known, ever since you made me that promise in your back yard-- that the one person is out of the picture for good.  So.”  She gazed at him levelly.  “Shit happens, Alex.  Maybe I’ve experienced more than my fair share…but if I’m being objective, I can’t even say that.  Everyone’s life seems to contain its own unique assembly of horrors.  The only thing you can do is mourn and heal and eventually, if you are very, very lucky, gather together the resources you need to pick yourself up and move on.  And I have moved on.  I truly have.”  She dimpled suddenly.  “More than I would have ever thought possible, honestly.”

Ah, god.  Back to Duncan.  It was as plain that the girl was thinking about him as if she’d spoken aloud.  “Is he good to you, Pixie?”

She flushed a beautiful rosy pink.  “Incredibly,” she said.  “I’ve never known anything like it, really.  Especially, ah, you know, in bed.  We…” She suddenly eyed him as if he’d grown another head, and Methos abruptly realized that he’d half-bolted out of his chair.  “Um.  Alex?  What’s wrong?”

“YOU’RE SLEEPING TOGETHER?”  The second the sentence roared past his lips, Methos knew how completely ridiculous it was.  He collapsed back in the chair quickly, waving his arms in big semaphore circles as if he could wipe the words out of the air.  “No, no, sorry, cancel that.  Of course you are.  I just—I’m just going to need a minute to get used to the idea.  Okay?  Can you give me that?” 

He pushed out his hand like a traffic officer imperiously directing cars to stop, and was relieved when Milly, rather than looking offended or mad, actually giggled out loud.  “It *is* rather a lot to get used to,” she said.  “For me, as well.  But never mind.  I’ll do my best to save you from the dreaded ‘too much information’ syndrome in future.”

“That might be best,” Methos agreed.  And discovered that Milly was regarding him fondly.  A bit patronizingly too, perhaps, the way someone would look down at a particularly dimwitted puppy that had finally learned how to sit.  But still with a quite a bit more warmth than Methos thought the situation really warranted.  “What?” he demanded irritably.

“Nothing, really,” she said, hiding a smile.  “It’s just…this is the most we’ve talked about personal matters for a very long time.  Months, I think.” Methos couldn’t argue with that, so he nodded, letting his chin fall disconsolately to his chest.  “Alex…”

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t we, exactly?  I thought we…well.  I know it’s an odd situation, having me living here with you and Jobey, but I thought the two of us were well on our way to becoming friends.  Especially after you told me about your past. What changed?”

“I—“ He floundered for a minute.  Damn, but this total honesty thing was hard.  “It wasn’t anything you’d done, Pixie. I just…” He sighed heavily, leaning forward, bracing his arms against his knees.  “I’ve never done this before, you see.”

“Done what?”

*Been a father* is what his heart whispered, but he dared not say it aloud.  MacLeod’s barb had hit home more deeply than the Highlander would ever know.  “Been involved in the adult life of a mortal whom I first knew as a child,” he said.  “No, that’s not quite right.  It has happened, more than once.  But whenever it’s happened in the past, I could pretend to be someone new, my own nephew or bastard son if nothing else would work.  The relationships always started over from scratch, adult to adult.  I’ve never been *me* with someone I first knew as a child before.  And I’ve certainly never done it with a child I…” *Loved*, whispered Methos’s treacherous heart again, and his mind quickly replaced the word with something less strong…”…cared about, as much as I cared about you.”  He gave Milly a tight, wan little smile.  “It’s taking me a little while to get used to, that’s all.”

She was unmoved.  “Which still doesn’t explain why you stopped talking to me, Alex.”

“No.” Methos leaned back in his chair, disgruntled—but not with her.  No, just with himself.  “There…there was a day.  You probably don’t even remember it.  But you were playing in the pool with Joe…having a water fight…”

“Yes,” Milly agreed, smiling in spite of herself.  “I do remember.  You were cheering on both of us and suggesting diabolical uses for the pool’s water jets.  At least you *were*.  Until you suddenly got up and walked away. I never knew why.”  

“The light changed,” Methos answered.  “There were some clouds in the sky that day, and suddenly the sun came out from behind one, shining down through the conservatory roof liked god’s own spotlight.  And then….I don’t know how to explain it, Pix.  But you and Joe were standing so close together, both in your swimsuits.  And suddenly it was just so…so painfully obvious, how young you still are.  And perhaps more importantly, how young Joe *isn’t.*”  Milly flinched, looking stricken.  Methos shrugged apologetically.  “Until that moment, I honestly hadn’t put it together that you were going to outlive Joe.  Stupid of me, really.  But there it is.”

She looked horrified.  “Is that why you pulled away?” she asked.  “Because I’m so much younger than Jobey and you…you started hating me for it?”

“No!  Oh, god, no,” Methos hurriedly reassured.  “I just started thinking about *you*, that’s all.  The way you still have your whole life in front of you.   And just what that life could reasonably be expected to be like, here with us.  Especially after…after Joe leaves us.  As far away as I hope that day will be.” He lifted his hand expressively.  “Knowing me puts a target on your head, Pixie.  There are only two ways that I know to cope with that.  One is to isolate yourself from the world completely, like we’ve done here.  The other is to live in the world, but never really be a part of it…move to a new city or country every few years, change identities whenever there’s even a hint that someone knows more about your past than they should.  Oh, Joe and I have enough money to make sure you live out your days in relative comfort and safety, whichever option you choose.  But comfort alone doesn’t make life worth living, Pixie.  Only two things can do that.  The first is meaningful work.  And the second is love.”  He shrugged one shoulder.  “I was pretty sure you’d be able to find the first for yourself, even if you stayed with us here…I thought you’d eventually start teaching in cyberspace the same way Joe teaches his guitar students, or maybe devote yourself to some kind of research.  We’d have gladly underwritten any project you wanted to start.  But as for the second?” He sighed.  “The only viable option that I could think of for *that* was to someday marry you myself.”

For a moment, Methos thought Milly’s eyes were going to bug right out of her head.  “Well,” she said, voice clearly strained.  “I guess I don’t have to wonder why you stopped talking to me, now.  I’m a little surprised you didn’t abandon the whole island.  Talk about your Fates Worse than Death.  Even Fed at his best couldn’t have arranged anything more diabolical than being forced to marry *me*…”

“It wasn’t *that*!” Methos exclaimed, hurriedly and awkwardly.  “It was—I—I just…” And abruptly he realized that she was laughing. Really, really, laughing, the guffaws growing louder with each passing second, until her shoulders were shaking and actual tears were forming in her eyes.  “Well,” he said, thoroughly consternated.  “See if I ever propose to *you* again.”

“You weren’t actually proposing to me now,” Milly pointed out, irritatingly reasonable.  “And yes, I know.  You didn’t really see it as a Fate Worse than Death, either.  But probably just the suggestion fills you with exactly the same amount of skin-crawling horror that it does me.  Not because I don’t love you, Alex—I do.  Deeply.  Truly.  But…because you *did* know me, as a child…”

“Yes,” he said, almost weak with relief that she understood.  “Exactly.”  He proffered her a tiny smile.  “It never really made sense to me before, you know.  Why mortals insist on seeing the children they watch grow up as being children forever, even after they are clearly anything but.  But…when I look at you…”

“You still see the little girl who tumbled into your lily pond,” Milly finished for him.  “I know.  And I will always see the Alex who wrapped me up in that hideous orange afghan and carried me around on his hip for four days when my Abuela died.”  She looked down at her lap again.  “Nonetheless, I am flattered.  Especially since I know that to even consider such a thing is to contemplate a life without Jobey in it, which has to hurt like hell.   You’ve found the love of your very long life, and spent more than four decades at his side; considering the time when he will no longer be with you has got to be…ghastly.  I think only the deepest kind of love could make it possible for you to even think about it at all.  For which I am truly grateful.” 

Startled, Methos wondered how much the child knew.  He’d made many arrogant assurances of his “commitment to living” to the Highlander that day.  Still, in the decades before Milly’s coming, there had been many times when Methos wondered if he’d end up offering his head to the nearest Immortal rather than go on in a world without Joe. Had Milly somehow been able to guess how many?  And could she even begin to understand what it meant that today he only rarely did?  Sometimes, as he’d tried to tell MacLeod, telling someone *yes, I will stay alive for you* was an even greater act of selflessness than saying that you would die for them… 

But Milly was still talking.  “And truth be told,” she said, looking more and more uncomfortable with every word, “even with all the skin crawling aspects included…if I’d spent another ten or twenty years like this, living in the island paradise version of solitary confinement, I might have been seriously tempted to take you up on it.   So.”  She smiled an embarrassed smile.  “It’s probably lucky for both of us that the problem’s already been solved.”

“By MacLeod,” Methos said, more stating a fact than asking a question.  She nodded anyway.  “Well, he does have a way of dashing in at the last minute,” Methos sighed. “Just like the proverbial knight in shining armor.  You’ll learn that soon, if you haven’t already.” 

Milly didn’t answer, not in words. But her smile broadened and her dimple deepened, giving her a look of lovely, girlish joy that Methos had honestly never expected to see the adult Milly wear.  He wanted to ask her if she really knew what she was getting into, if she’d thought it all through, if she was *sure*.  But what was the point?  Methos could recognize the incontrovertible, painful, wounding bite of cupid’s arrow when he saw it.  Besides, as MacLeod himself had so unfairly pointed out…who was ever certain how things would turn out, when love began?  Whoever knew for sure?  Methos rearranged his features into a solemn smile, made sure his body language was as open and honest as it could be.  “I’m happy for you, Pix.”

She looked up at him sharply.  “Are you?”  she asked.  “Because while we’re busy being brutally honest with each other, there’s one more question I need to ask.”

“Ask away, Pixie.”

“Do I need to worry about you even more than I need to worry about hypothetical babysitters or pool boys?”

“No, Pixie,” he answered gently.  “Not even if it was a thousand years from now, and both you and Joe were nothing but distant memories.  Trust me on this.  MacLeod and I were never meant to be.”  He reached out for her, laying a gentle hand upon her cheek, the first time he’d touched her since the conversation began.  “Besides.  He’s chosen *you* now…and once Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod gives his heart, he never asks for it back.  He’s yours for a lifetime, if you want him.  The only thing left to decide is if you really want him or not.  But I suspect that you already have.”  He lowered his hand, smiling into her beautiful black eyes.  “And I am happy for you, Pix.  I really truly am.”

She started to sniffle.  “None of that, now,” he said severely.  “Go grab MacLeod and enjoy your last night in paradise.  Take him for a long walk along the beach…I think I finally understand the reasons behind a few of the dark looks he sent my way, whenever Joe and I went for one…”

Milly’s sniffles transmuted effortlessly into a soggy chuckle.  “Well, those sunsets *are* quite tempting,” she said.  “But it’s a small island, after all.  We didn’t want to take a chance on, er, tripping over the two of you.”

“A courtesy I greatly appreciate,” Methos answered dryly.  “Still, no such sacrifices are necessary tonight.  I’ll keep Joe indoors.”   He looked at her a trifle sadly.  “Duncan seemed to be under the impression that you were going to meet for one last weapons lesson, but talk him out of it, Pix.  Don’t be tempted to so much as open one of your mapping aps, either.  I mean it.  Enjoy the night.  Because you never know what the morning will bring.”

“I will,” Milly answered.  She rose gracefully to her feet.  At the edge of the door, though, she hesitated.  “Methos?”

It was the first time she had ever called him that name out loud.  Methos’s pulse sped as he once again wondered just how much the girl understood.  Did she have any idea what it meant to him…what it meant to add her to the very, very small group of people who could call him that name with love?  And how should he answer in return?  Should he call her Milly, Millicent, Dr. Alphonso, as everyone else in her life undoubtedly already did?  No.  If she was at last seeing him as he really was, he could only repay her by addressing her as the way he’d always seen her, in his heart.  “Yes, Pix?”

“I love you.”

“And I love you, my Pixie.  I always will.”

***

Since Milly had come to the island, she’d seen many, many sunsets that were beautiful, gently tinting the skies with pastel colors as the day became night.  She’d been lucky enough to see a few that were somehow greater than that, too:  the kinds of sunsets that filled her eyes with wonder and her soul with peace, as the entire world seemed to quiet into silence, resting and enjoying the moment with her.  But she had never seen a sunset like the one she saw that night.  The colors were magnificent, a blend of gold and orange and cerise that burst upon the eye like a heavenly firework.  They filled up the entire world, painting the sky and sea equally with their glory, until even the leaves of the trees and the white sand of the beach glowed with their rosy hues.  Milly and Duncan had been planning to go for a walk.  But the moment they reached the beach both their mouths dropped open, and each one knew they wouldn’t walk another step.  By mutual unspoken agreement they both sank down into the sand.  And sat there, silently, hand in hand, while the lightshow played out before their eyes.

Eventually—the sky was still stunning, but the last fiery rim of the sun had disappeared from sight, and the twilight had thickened to the point that it had become a little hard to see—Duncan gently disentangled his hand from hers.  “Wow,” was all he said.

His eyes were damp.  *Four hundred and forty-three years,* Milly thought.  *God only knows how many miracles and marvels he’s seen. But an extraordinary sunset can still make him feel enough wonder that tears come to his eyes.*  It made Milly feel closer to him, no longer quite so different even if she was less than a tenth his age.  And that made her brave enough to say, “Duncan?”

“Yes, Milly?”

“I’d like you to take careful note of the fact that we both have all our clothes on.  Nor have we been kissing or engaging in any other form of foreplay.  Although, if you really feel like quibbling, I suppose some might say that watching a sunset like that counts…”

He chuckled, a wonderfully deep and sexy sound.  “It really should,” he said.  “But for the sake of argument, we’ll let it slide.”  He picked up her hand again, brought it to his lips for a kiss.  “Is there some *particular* reason why you wanted me to take note of these facts just now, Dr. Alphonso?”

“Yes.”  She nodded.  “Because I’m asking for that favor now.”

Even in the dim light, she could see the ivory gleam of his very wolfish smile.  “Good,” he said.  And gently pulled her down onto the sand.

Sometime later…it was still not quite full-dark, but the sky had turned to the most beautiful dark cobalt blue, and Milly could see the first glimmering of stars starting to break through overhead…Milly relaxed backward with a  blissful sigh.  It really felt wonderful, stretching her entire naked skin out against the soft, clean, still sun-warmed sand.  Of course, she had the feeling that the second she got up and tried to walk, the grains of sand now clinging to her ass and thighs would begin to chafe horribly, and she would finally understand the full meaning of Alex’s “too much sand in too many inappropriate places” critique.  Still, for now Milly was in heaven.  A sudden thought suddenly made her giggle.  Duncan, who had been lounging with equal contentment near her knees, turned his head curiously.  “What is it?” he inquired lazily.

“Nothing,” Milly said reflexively, and proved the lie of that almost two seconds later by giggling again.  “Okay,” she said.  “It’s just that when I was a young teenager, my various foster sisters would often stay up late discussing exactly how and where they’d like to lose their virginities.  On a beach by the ocean was always the number one favorite.  I must say, I never quite saw the appeal.  But now I do.”  Duncan made a pleased sound, a deep low growling rumble.  He kissed her knee and started caressing her thighs.  “Of course,” Milly said thoughtfully, “it’s ridiculous to talk about someone of my age and oddly checkered experience as truly being a virgin.  And it’s not like what we just did would qualify by most people’s standards, anyway.  But…”

Duncan stilled.  “I think it counts,” he said, in a very soft, very uncertain tone.  “I mean, I…ah, I can see how it could.  If you wanted it to.”  She smiled, almost glad that he couldn’t see her amusement in the near- dark, and reached down to ruffle his hair.  He moved up to cover her body with his, uncertainty still coloring his voice.  “Milly?”

“Yes, Duncan?”

“Why did you ask for this tonight?”

Milly thought about it as she twined her arms around his back, considering and rejecting several answers.  Like: “We’re heading into what could very well be enemy territory tomorrow, and we might not have another chance.”  Or: “Contrary to all logic, I’m really quite a traditional, family-minded girl at heart.  And in a completely crazy, non-traditional way, both of my fathers formally gave us their blessings today, which somehow makes all this feel that much more real and safe.”  But neither of those options had quite the ring of total truth she was going for, so she chose a third.  “Because it’s our last night here,” she said simply.  “And I wanted this to be a part of my memories of this place.”  

He relaxed.  In fact, his muscles went so completely soft with relief under her hands that Milly frowned, wondering what he’d been expecting—dreading?—her to say instead.  “Duncan,” she said slowly.  “You *must* know that it wasn’t because of *you* that I didn’t want your mouth on me before this.  There…ah, there were other reasons…”

He nodded, pulling her in closer still.  “Yes,” he said.  “Although I wasn’t going to say anything if you didn’t bring it up first.  It’s another thing you had forced on you, wasn’t it?  By Smith?”

Milly nodded, intensely relieved that he understood.  “Yes,” she agreed.  And then found herself grinning goofily. “Wow.  Feel privileged, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.  I’ve never admitted that to anyone before.  Not outside of a therapist’s office.”

“Why not?”

“Um…” Drat.  Another difficult question, much harder than the first.  Really, it was only the fact that Milly was *there*, under those beautiful stars, lying with Duncan after having just experienced one of the world’s greatest orgasms, that made her brave enough to answer. “Because a lot of people don’t really get how oral sex can be rape, I guess.  I didn’t understand it myself, for a lot of years.  After all, it’s not like he held me down for it, like he did for…other things.  Conceivably, I could have gotten away.  I was just so young.  And so scared…” 

Duncan murmured something under his breath.  He said whatever it was so quietly that it might almost have been a soothing endearment, but somehow Milly knew better.  “What was that?

“I said, I am going to kill that man,” Duncan repeated matter-of-factly.  “And I’m so sorry, Milly.  I should have done it twenty-five years ago. Amanda and I…we tried, you know.  We did everything we could to track him down during those first few horrible days, when we still thought he’d succeeded in killing Joe and beheading Methos as well as hurting you.  But it was like he’d vanished into thin air.”  Duncan’s arms tightened around Milly protectively.  “Still.  That doesn’t matter now.  No matter how old he is, how far he’s run, or how many assumed names he’s gone through—I am going to track him down.  And remove him from this life.”

He meant it.  He unquestionably meant it.  Milly was deeply touched…though part of her wonder just when she had become the sort of person who was deeply touched by her lover offering to commit a vengeful murder in her name.  “Well,” she said after a moment’s thought.  “Romantic as I find that thought, it turns out that it’s unnecessary, love.  The reason you and Amanda couldn’t take care of Brian Smith for me then is that Jobey beat you to it.” 

Duncan stopped dead, clearly astonished.  “I know,” Milly said sympathetically.  “I didn’t know myself, before today.  I was surprised, too.  But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense that Jobey was the one who did it.  And…I’m grateful.  Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am.”  She strained her neck upward to lightly kiss his cheek.  “Because Brian Smith is gone.  I’m safe from him, really and truly safe forever.  And without the love of my life needing to go on a decades-long vendetta to accomplish it, like what’s-his-name in that old TV series.  Which makes me very happy indeed, because…”  She rang her fingers teasingly down Duncan’s arm.  “You, my love, have much better things to do.”

He laughed lightly, repeating her teasing tickle on the sensitive skin just below her lowest rib.  Heat flared—under his fingers, between Milly’s thighs, and in the crackle of electricity that was suddenly sparking between them.  And perhaps most markedly in Duncan’s voice, which deepened almost to a purr. “Oh?” he drawled.  “And do you have any suggestion for what those things should be?”

She lifted her head again, wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered something in his ear.  Duncan froze.  “Milly,” he said, and she could feel his pulse begin to race uncontrollably, although he was doing his best to keep his voice level and calm.  “Are you sure?”

“I am,” she answered unhesitatingly.  “But it’s starting to get too cold to be really comfortable out here.  Shall we go in to bed?” 

“God. Yes.”

They started toward the house, quickly gathering up their clothes without bothering to put them on…although Milly did wrap the sarong she’d been wearing loosely around her hips, loving the sensual way the silky fabric floated and fluttered against her legs.  When they reached the bright LED lights that illuminated the entrance to their wing, Milly felt a brief moment of shyness over her topless state, wondering where on earth her modesty had gone…but only a moment.  It vanished the second she felt Duncan’s eyes on her, and saw the eagerness with which he pulled her out of the garden’s shadows and into the lighted hall.  Then, all she felt was loved, completely desired and at peace.  And more than ready to do what she’d whispered in his ear.

Sadly, feeling ready wasn’t quite the same as *being* ready. Milly discovered this a short time later, when Duncan was spread out in all his gorgeousness on her bed and she was kneeling over him, ready to take his cock inside her body and finally lose her ‘voluntary virginity’ with a man for real.  She was wet, she was happy, she wanted him *in* her with a deep, impatient ache that was unlike anything she’d ever known…it was time, damn it.  But try as Milly might, moving her body this way and that, she simply could not make the damn thing fit.  She tried repeatedly, for what felt like an eternity…until Duncan, who had gone from breathless anticipation to frowning concern, suddenly started to laugh.  “I’m sorry,” he said when she glared at him, clearly trying to suppress his chuckles and failing utterly.  “It’s just…it’s just the look on your face. ”  He reached up and stoked her hair away from her face.  “We *can* do something else, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Milly said impatiently.  “I just don’t understand why *this* isn’t working.” She gestured down at their obstinately un-joined genitalia, gazing at them in as much consternation as if they’d been a badly drawn line of latitude on a map—an expression which must have been comical in the extreme to Duncan, who really deserved some kind of award for not breaking into completely hysterical laughter right then.   “Tab A.  Slot B,” Milly protested weakly.  “People have been doing this for as long as there have *been* people.  Shouldn’t it come a little more naturally?”

His mouth worked helplessly for a moment.  “Well, it does tend to take a little practice,” he said.  “You’ve never done this before, remember. Not really.”

“But I have,” she protested, and looked back up to see his carefully raised eyebrow.  “Well, okay,” she admitted, “maybe the penis involved at the time was removable, but that should just make this even easier, shouldn’t it?  Twice the natural lubrication and all that.  Not to mention that you had about four of your fingers inside me this very evening, when you were going down on me on the beach.  I just don’t understand…”

“Two fingers,” he corrected, still with that air of barely repressed amusement.  “But I do get your point.  Come here.” And reluctantly she climbed off him, crawling red-faced up the bed to his side.  He kissed her tenderly.  “You know, we could try a different position,” he suggested.  “One that gives me a little more control.  I have had just a little bit more experience with this than you have, after all.”

“I don’t know…”

“Trust me?”  And it was a serious question this time, no humor at all…except for a gentle twinkle of appreciation in the back of Duncan’s chocolate eyes that Milly knew wasn’t directed at her, but rather at the universe, or at whatever mad god had invented human sexuality in all its glorious ridiculousness.  She nodded, the jerkiness of the motion betraying the sudden nervousness she really didn’t want to admit.  She laid on her back, tensing horribly as she spread open her legs. 

“Hmmm,” Duncan said thoughtfully.  “Nope. I don’t think that’s going to work at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not anticipating anymore.  You’re just enduring,” he answered, pointing this out as blithely and matter of fact-ly as if she’d dropped her elbow during a kata.  “Let’s try this…”  And he gently urged her onto her side while he spooned up to her back from behind. 

Ah.  Better.  This was much more familiar ground.  They’d often made love in just such a way, Duncan’s arm around Milly’s waist while Milly touched herself, or--as was becoming more frequent--allowing him to pleasure her, instead.  Milly felt safe like this, wrapped up in the reassuring bulk of his body while still feeling able to get away if needed.  And over time she’d gotten used to…had even come to appreciate…the way it felt to have his arousal pressed up against her, in the hollow of her back or against the underside of her leg. 

But she’d never had his cock in between her thighs before, her leg muscles tensing involuntarily around his length, and she’d certainly never had him rub the head of his penis right…oh, god…there.  Duncan slid over her inner labia gently, not even trying to enter, just teasing her softly, and the sensation was enough to make Milly’s eyes flutter open widely with surprise.  A completely unintentional groan escaped her throat.  Duncan did chuckle aloud this time, but it was a sweet, loving sound, without even the smallest hint of condescension or malice.  He followed it with a gentle kiss to her shoulder.  “Good?”

“Yessss…” she breathed.  And promptly tried to move her own hips, awkwardly, not knowing at all what she wanted to do or how to accomplish it but just knowing that she had to have more *now*.  Duncan stopped her, though, holding her hips still with two strong hands.  “Uh-uh,” he said.  “Not so fast, Dr. Alphonso.  We’ve still got a long way to go before the main event.”

“But…”

“Shhh.  No buts.  Just trust me.”

And trust him Milly did, closing her eyes and simply letting him take control while he proceeded to torture her unmercifully, sliding his cock over her inner lips again and again.  At the same time, he started teasing her clit expertly with his fingers—so expertly that Milly was shortly a sweaty, trembling wreck.  He’d often made her climax with his hands, but she couldn’t remember ever having been quite so intensely aroused before; it made even the familiar sensations from his fingers feel exotic and new, and the unfamiliar ones from his cock feel…exquisite.  It seemed like an eternity—and also like no time at all—before, on one of Duncan’s gentle, rocking thrusts, something different happened.  They both said “Oh,” at the same moment, in the same breathy, worshipful voice.  Judging from the way that Duncan suddenly stilled, he was just as surprised as Milly was.  “Oh,” he said again. 

Was it the scientist in Milly that made her reach down between her legs, to feel the place where her body was stretching out so oddly around his shaft?  Or just the lover?  Feel she did, causing Duncan to gasp again as she lightly touched him through her own flesh, and when she was finished she dropped her hand, astonished to feel tears coming to her eyes.  “You’re inside me.”

“Yes, Milly.  Yes, sweetheart.  I am.”

“Is it…”  He was barely in her at all, she knew, the thickest part of his crown still stretching her wide, hardly even seated inside.  She gave an experimental squeeze of her inner muscles anyway, and heard Duncan groan as a fresh flood of wetness came from him, or from her, or more probably from both.  “Is it…do I feel good?”

“Oh god,” he groaned, burying his head in her shoulder.  “What a question.  And one that I really should be asking *you.*”  She stayed quiet, not thinking, just feeling.  After a moment he lifted his head.  “Yes,” he said simply.  “You feel incredible, Milly. But it would be even better if…I mean, I hadn’t meant to…oh, damn.  Milly, do you think we could go back to the first position we tried? With you on top? I really want to be able to see your face…”

And to kiss her lips, she discovered a few minutes later.  And to lick and suck on her neck and breasts.  And to run his hands teasingly up and down her sides, at least whenever his arms weren’t wrapped around her, cradling her close.  It wasn’t quite the same position as they’d tried before…Duncan was sitting up now, back braced against the headboard while Milly knelt over his lap.  But she could already tell that it was a far better one than their first variation.  Good as the kissing and the teasing and the cradling undoubtedly were, though, the true power of the position was in the way Duncan could look at her, hungrily drinking in each and every move.  His eyes never left Milly’s face as she lowered her body onto him, even as his hands expertly guided her hips to just the right place…Milly had to close her own eyes for a moment as she welcomed him inside, but she was very sure that he never closed his.  And once she opened them again, she was equally sure that she’d never forget his expression as he watched her pull up for the first time and then slide back down, amazed at how good it felt, at how easy it had all become.  “I don’t understand,” she gasped out as her hips effortlessly found a rhythm, one that brought more pleasure with each and every repetition.  “It seemed so impossible before.  I don’t understand why now…”

He stole her doubting words with another passionate kiss.  When he pulled back, his eyes were as deep and fathomless as the night sky outside.  “You really don’t know?”

Milly shook her head wildly.  “No-oo,” she stuttered.  “I really don’t.  I don’t understand how it could be so bad before, and so…so…god.  So *good* now…”

“It was time, love,” he answered gently.  “That was the only thing that was wrong.  Your body just needed a bit more time.”  And she gasped, because on the last word he had lifted his hips, meeting her downward slide for the first time with an upward thrust of his own, and the sweetness of that was beyond anything she’d ever expected.  “But I think we’re both more than ready now,” he said, with a hunger that made her every nerve ending flare.  “Milly?  Can I—“

“Yes,” she said at once, not even waiting for him to finish.  Then “Yes” again as he gently guided her backwards until she was lying with her back on the bed, rolling with her gracefully so they could stay connected as she did.  Somehow, he managed to keep himself inside her as they swapped places, Duncan lying over her, Milly’s back arching off the bed as her legs clamped around his waist.  The new positon gave him considerably better leverage, and suddenly he was thrusting into her in earnest, the bed frame lurching dangerously with each and every stroke. Milly had a quick vision of trying to explain to Jobey exactly why her bed needed repairing before all thought shattered.  She breathed “Yes,” for a third and final time.  Then forgot the concept of words altogether as her climax swept over her.

She missed the moment when he came, and was still far enough out of it to be only dimly aware when he pulled out and left the bed.  He disappeared briefly before returning with the homey knitted throw she kept on her favorite bedroom chair.  He arranged it over them both tenderly.  And Milly snuggled into his arms and slept.

***

Sometime later, she had a dream.

It was an odd dream.  She and Duncan were both naked…which, on reflection, really wasn’t that odd at all, considering what they’d been doing before she slept.  But what *was* odd was the fact that they had an audience.  They seemed to be in the middle of some kind of humungous sports arena, and every seat was filled—with people, people of every color and age and description, all with their eyes turned their way.  Duncan didn’t seem to notice them.  He just kept softly caressing Milly’s breasts when she tried to call his attention to their presence, ignoring them even after she pulled on his ponytail and commanded him to look.  There was a strange, golden light twining around his fingers, arcing and sparking, like a miniature strike of lightning. Milly forgot the people too as she watched it, both fearing it and,--yes—craving it with her entire being.  Duncan murmured something.  Milly couldn’t quite hear what it was, but it looked like his lips were forming the words “trust me?”, and her heart instantly agreed.  He began to move his hand toward her chest…she spread open her arms…

And the scene shifted, changed utterly.  Duncan vanished into thin air.  “Oooops!” exclaimed a young, girlish voice.  “Nope, none of that now, not yet.  Not that you aren’t ready for it…you are, both of you…but this is not the right place.  It isn’t the right time, either.  Although…” and the voice dissolved into a throaty chuckle.  “That’s getting harder and harder for even me to define…”

Milly swung around.  Instead of the cavernous arena, she now appeared to be standing in a very old-fashioned garden, complete with high stone walls and herb filled beds and a woman wearing the homespun wool habit of a medieval nun, gently digging around one of the plants with a stick.  The gardening woman wasn’t the speaker, though.  The speaker was a red-headed girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, as out of place and time in this cloistered garden as Milly was herself.  Like the gardener, the girl’s hair was braided and her feet were bare, but she was dressed in faded jeans and an even more faded t-shirt.  It that had a picture of Mr. Spock from Star Trek printed on the chest.  Spock looked out at Milly in what Milly thought was a disconcertingly alive sort of way.  “Who are you?” Milly asked.

The girl smiled secretively.  “Oh, you’ll be learning *that* soon enough,” she said.  “But I’m not the one you’re here to meet today.  That honor belongs to this lady, here.”  She nodded at the gardening woman, who abandoned her stick and got gracefully to her feet.  “Rebecca? This Dr. Milly Mac—I mean, Dr. Milly Alphonso,” the girl said smoothly.  “Milly, meet Rebecca.”

“Methos’s pixie,” Rebecca said warmly.  “Welcome, Milly.  I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance at last.”

It was impossible not to like her.  Not only was Rebecca beautiful…blonde, petite, and even featured, with a lively intelligence written clearly in every line of her face…there clung about her a palpable aura of wisdom and peace.  Milly had the oddest feeling that Rebecca already knew everything about her that it was possible to know, and loved and approved of her in much the same way that Milly’s beloved Abuela had.  Which should have been reassuring.  Oddly, it just left Milly feeling even more at sea.  “I’m glad to meet *you*,” she earnestly.  “Um…just who are you again?”

Both the woman and the girl laughed merrily.  “Rebecca,” Rebecca repeated, her secretive smile rivalling the girls.  “I’m…well.  I was a good friend of your father’s, Milly.  And your lover’s.  And your best friend’s.  Actually, that’s probably how you know me best.  As Amanda’s Teacher?”

“It would be,” the girl interrupted, “except that Milly hasn’t met Amanda as an adult even once yet, let alone become her best friend.  That’s still a long way off.”  Rebecca’s mouth made a little “o” of dismay.  “Never mind,” said the girl impishly, patting Rebecca’s arm.  “Given what’s coming, it’s not that big a spoiler…and anyway, I know how to distract her.”  She smiled widely.  “What Rebecca isn’t saying is that for centuries she also periodically shared a bed with all three, sometimes with more than one at a time.  The original friend-with-benefits, that’s our Rebecca.”

“Yes, well,” Rebecca said mildly.  “The word ‘friend’ can encompass many types of love, star-girl, as you very well know.  And now don’t you think it’s time you left and let Milly and I to get acquainted in peace?” The red-head grinned mischievously and vanished in a puff of smoke.  Rebecca shook her head.  “Theatrical,” she said.  “But then, the Little Wise One always did have a weakness for the dramatic.  Come sit with me on this bench, Milly.”

More discombobulated than she’d been for quite some time, Milly did so.  A strange thrill went through her as she stepped closer and sat down upon the mossy stone bench, a feeling she had come to identify as treading on Holy Ground.  Rebecca nodded approvingly.  “Yes,” she said.  “We are on Holy Ground, here.  In every possible sense.”

“Where are we?”

“ _Le Sanctuiare de Immortale”_ , Rebecca murmured, looking around the garden in great reverence.  She touched the garden wall tenderly.  “Methos never knew that I spent time here.  I did so long before he came, you see.  And after him, too…although the place was never quit the same, once Bright Sky had left us. It was as if the very heart of the place had vanished…”  Rebecca sighed heavily, and for a second, flickering in the shadows, Milly got the impression of a tiny dark-haired woman looking at her with great love, a series of crescent-shaped lines marring her lovely face.  It only lasted for a moment, though, and the woman was gone.  “I never did tell him,” Rebecca continued.  “Although I could have.  Even though I spent many years here, I never took the vows necessary to truly join Kahvin’s circle, and so I could have told Methos what I knew without being foresworn.  But I was ever a poor seer.  My glimpses of the Tide were always just that, glimpses only, vague and incomplete.  And so I could never decide whether telling Methos would do more harm or good.”  She smiled sadly.  “I almost wish I had told him, now.  But I lost my head before I could.”

Milly blinked.  She was, she realized, only understanding perhaps a tenth of what the woman said.  But the last sentence stood out like a beacon.  “Lost your head?”

Rebecca nodded.  “More than forty years ago, by your place in the Tide,” she said, as calm and unruffled as if they were discussing what to have for tea.  “Duncan MacLeod carries my Quickening now.”

This was so startling that Milly almost came to her feet.  “Duncan *killed* you???”

“Oh, no!  No, not at all,” Rebecca said.  “My head was taken by one of my students, an Immortal named Luthor….No, Luthor!  Not now!” This last was said to a smiling dark skinned man, who appeared in the same shadows as the lovely scarred-faced woman had.   He bowed, a bit mockingly Milly thought, and disappeared in the same manner as the red-headed girl, though mercifully without the puff of smoke.  Rebecca turned back to Milly.  “Forgive me,” she said.  “Names have great power here, within the Second Chorus. And of course everyone here is very eager to catch a glimpse of you.  Never mind; he won’t be disturbing us again.  All you really need to know is that Duncan eventually took the head of the man who killed me.  And so here it is, with Duncan, that I came to rest.”  Rebecca spread her hands happily, as if now everything should be perfectly clear.

It wasn’t.  “Uh-huh.  Right,” Milly said, nodding gamely.  *Go ahead and humor the nice dead person, Milly.  It’s the least you can do.*  “So how is it that I’m able to talk with you now?”

“Because you are very special,” Rebecca said easily.  “And because over the last few weeks you and Duncan have begun to share far more than just your bodies, which means that you will soon be capable of dreaming his dreams…no, no, don’t blush, child!  Your union should always be a source of joy, never embarrassment.  And since it happens to be the whole reason that Cassie brought you here to speak with me in the first place…”

Milly couldn’t help it; her cheeks felt like they were on fire.  “Cassie is the red-headed girl? The Mr. Spock fan?”

“Yes.”

“Is she dead, too?”

Rebecca laughed merrily.  “No,” she said, eyes dancing.  “Cassie isn’t even Immortal, at least not in the usual way.  But she has the rare, rare gift of being able to swim wherever she desires within the Tide. And she’s never quite been able to understand why she should play by anyone else’s rules, so…” Rebecca leaned toward Milly earnestly.  “So she brought you to me here.  Because she was correct.  It’s the right time for you and Duncan to complete your bonding…to become truly a part of each other, in a way that only two other mortal-Immortal couples in history ever have.  You are both more than ready.  But, Milly, my child… IT IS NOT THE RIGHT PLACE.  You must wait until you find the place that is.  Everything…*everything*…depends on it.”

And this was so utterly nonsensical that Milly could only shake her head.  “Time? Place?” she repeated dully.  “Rebecca, please. I’m trying, but I just don’t understand…” 

But Rebecca had already gotten to her feet.  She strode across the garden, laying her hand flat against the old stone wall.  “We thought *this* was the right place,” she said sadly, resting her cheek against the stone.  “Kahvin and Bright Sky and me and all the rest.  We genuinely did.  We thought we were doing something new, creating an Immortal community that would outlast Time itself.  We thought we would be the center of the coming change.” Rebecca turned her head to look at Milly.  “But we were wrong.  If you remember nothing else of this meeting back in your waking life, Milly, you must remember this.”  She dipped her hand into an overgrown birdbath, and drew a figure with the water on the wall.  It was a circle with five uneven lines radiating out from it, each line ending in a dot. “THE SANCTUARY IS NOT THE CENTER.  Remember…”

And abruptly, Milly was awake.

She lay in the dark for some time, trying to catch hold of the rapidly fleeing sounds and images from the dream.  It wasn’t the first time she’d had an extraordinarily vivid dream after making love with Duncan, of course.  But those dreams were usually nightmares involving Brian Smith, and they were usually violent enough that Duncan woke up first—a good thing on the whole, as he was able to both wake Milly up out of the nightmare and to sooth her down afterwards.  (Milly would have felt guiltier about this, but Duncan had assured her that if she stayed with him, she’d have more than enough opportunity to do the same for him.  Four hundred years of life did not come without its share of nightmare-inducing trauma.  Her turn would come.) 

But Duncan was still sleeping, snoring away like a chainsaw amidst the really quite embarrassing wreck of a bed.  And this dream certainly hadn’t felt like a nightmare—although Milly was sure there’d been some scary elements.  A lingering impression of a million curious eyes staring down at her naked body tickled her mind.  But that hadn’t been the whole of it, now had it?  There had been a woman…a former lover of Duncan’s, Milly rather thought.  And she’d been drawing something on a wall, talking about finding the center… 

Milly flushed guiltily, warm and embarrassed in the dark.  Nudity…former lovers…centers…ah.  So it had just been a good old-fashioned Freudian sex dream, then.  Duncan had certainly found Milly’s ‘center’ earlier that night, after all.  And it made sense that, in the wake of their increasing intimacy, Milly would be feeling extra-exposed, as well as a little jealous of all the lovers he’d had before.  Sighing at herself, Milly quietly asked Minerva to display the time…it was just after three a.m…and rolled over onto her side.  She closed her eyes, determined to go right back to sleep….

And a sudden memory of what the woman had drawn on the garden wall flashed into her brain.

A circle with five lines radiating outward from it, each ending in a terminal dot.  A map diagram.  And not just any diagram—it was from the prophecy manuscript, the very first diagram in the book.  Milly knew that particular diagram well; she’d looked at it thousands of times during the last few months, to the point where she was pretty sure she could have drawn it herself freehand, accurate down to the millimeter.  Milly sat bolt upright, her heart racing.  “The Sanctuary is not the Center,” Rebecca had said.  Could it really be that simple?  All those months, all those endless simulation…could she really have just been approaching the problem inside out?  Milly had assumed all along that the central circle was the point of origin for the diagrams…that it represented the Sanctuary, or possibly Paris or Rome, and that one of the other lines pointed the way to the bit of Holy Ground the prophecy referred to.  But what if it was the other way around?  What if the Sanctuary was one of the *small* dots?  And the center of the diagram was the true place they sought? 

Milly had to get to her desk.  Now.

Carefully, moving as silently as she dared…god, the bed really was an amazing mess, she now understood why Duncan had just covered them both with her throw for sleep rather than trying to straighten it out…Milly slipped on a robe and went into her office, bringing up Project Haystack with one quietly murmured word.  She was still sitting there an hour later when Duncan walked in.  “I can see I’m going to spend a lifetime waking up and reaching out for you in the middle of the night, only to find that you’ve left me to go stare at a map,” he said affectionately.  “What is it this time?  More four dimensional simulations of airline timetables?”

“No,” Milly said distractedly.  “It’s the prophecy diagrams.  I had the strangest dream, Duncan.  I’ve been looking at them the completely wrong way, I think, and I also think I finally know the right one.  But I have to completely rewrite my simulation app before I’ll know.  Turn it inside out…”  And then what he’d said caught up with her, fully penetrated her programing-language clouded brain.  Milly’s mouth fell open.  “’Lifetime?’” she repeated.

Duncan nodded.  “Mine or yours, whichever we can get.  If you want to.  If…if you’ll have me.”

It was…a moment.  One of those moments where time stops, because you know—you know—that nothing will ever be quite the same ever again.  *It’s the End of The World As We Know It,* Milly thought.  *And I feel fine…* Duncan was watching her closely, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.  But also a touch of worry, too, and uncertainty.  The combination made her heart melt.  “Yes,” Milly breathed.

And he smiled at her, a beautiful smile, all warmth and relief and love, and just like that the moment was over.  The world had changed.  And she did feel fine.  Duncan placed a warm hand on her shoulder.  “Good,” he said.  “Then might I suggest that the rest of this can wait, at least until we’ve both had a little more sleep?  We’ve got to be up early, after all--Paulo should be arriving right after breakfast.  And neither of us is really packed yet.”

“I just need a few more minutes,” Milly promised.  “Go see if you can straighten out the bed…” Duncan chuckled happily and squeezed her shoulder before he left.  Milly looked at the array of holo pages filled with code spread out before her on her desk, hesitating….but Duncan was right.  It could wait, and right now, under the covers at Duncan’s side was the only place she wanted to be.  Besides, Milly had almost completely finished her part.  All she had to do was start the new simulations, and it would be up to Minerva to do the rest.  Milly gave the command, then slumped back in her chair to relax.  She knew she had a few moments, as judging from the sound effects coming from the next room, Duncan had chosen to make up the bed from scratch with fresh sheets.  Which made sense, as Milly had already discovered that unpleasantly cold wet spots were just one of those things that happened when your partner had the non-silicone variety of penis.  Yet another something to get used to…

“Milly?  I’ve changed the sheets, but I couldn’t find any clean pillowslips.  Where...”

“Oh.  I think I forgot to take them out of the cleaning cupboard.  Hang on.  I’ll be right there…”

Milly closed down her programs, asked Minerva to switch off the office lights.  And went to join her mate.


	10. across the door sill

Douglas Adam had once famously written that it was no coincidence that in no known language did the phrase 'As pretty as an Airport' appear. Methos…who had originally read “The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul” when it first came out in 1988, smack dab in the middle of the long, lonely, horrendously barren years after he’d first met and been rejected by Joe…could remember snorting and nodding along in cynical agreement.  Barring the occasional grace note of a lovely statue or other work of public art, all the world’s airports were hideous.  Methos knew, as he’d spent interminable purgatorial layovers in most all of them, at one time or another.  And in 1988, that was something he’d never really expected to change.

Now, though, sitting in the new Barbadian airport in Bridgetown, sipping—quite ironically—a cup of absolutely exquisite local lemon grass tea, Methos could only feel sorry that the great Mr. Adams hadn’t lived to see his own aphorism disproved.  The solarplane revolution of the 2020’s hadn’t just sped up world travel and slowed global warming.  The new planes were incredibly light and almost frighteningly quiet compared to their gas-guzzling forefathers.  And so airports no longer needed to be the strong, vibration-deafening concrete tombs they’d always been. 

The new Barbadian airport was an excellent case in point.  Methos felt like he was sipping tea in the middle of a crystal fairytale castle.  All the public areas were housed in various spires of thick, earthquake-proof, completely transparent nuglass.  (The nuglass, Methos knew, was bomb- and bullet-proof as well.  Technology for both airports and planes may have come a long way.  But humanity’s propensity for blowing up random travelers in senseless political protest had not.)   From the outside, the entire complex glittered like a crystal chandelier.  From the inside, it was like walking through a gigantic greenhouse, with lush plantings of tropical trees and flowers everywhere.  It was rumored that the airport’s completion had more than tripled Barbados’s already thriving tourist trade, and sitting there, Methos could well believe it; he’d certainly never spent such a relaxing hour in an airport before.  With Joe at his side, clearly enjoying the view and atmosphere as well, it was almost enough for Methos to forget his constant paranoia and trepidation about being in so public a place. 

Almost.

They’d arrived in Bridgetown yesterday.  Phone shopping had gone smoothly…all four members of Methos’s family now had brand new Galaxy XXXIII’s in their pocket, each with a new phone number…and then the party had split up.  Joe and Methos had retired to a quiet couple’s resort that used the word ‘discretion’ as its watchword—it had to, since most of its guests were celebrities from Europe or the States.  The newly minted “Dr. and Mr. Dido” had taken their new phones and fake passports out to paint the town red.  (Methos had expected Duncan to at least frown over Methos’s choice of pseudonym for him, but the Highlander had simply grinned at Milly foolishly.  Damn it.  The man really *was* in love.)  They’d met up again for breakfast…despite Joe’s repeated protests that he was still far too full of lobster to eat again…and then Methos and Joe had seen the “kids” to the airport.  There they’d stayed together, engaging in the sort of tense, meaningless last minute conversation you had in airports with loved ones you didn’t know when you’d see again, until Duncan and Milly’s ticket numbers were called to begin going through security.  Then they’d hugged and said goodbye. “We are going to stay and wait until they’ve boarded, right?” Joe said knowingly, once the new couple had gone.

His husband knew him so well.  “Probably until the actual plane has taken off,” Methos agreed.  “We’ve got plenty of time, after all.  Paulo won’t be available to fly us home until late tonight.  I know it’s ridiculous, but…”

“But you’ll feel better, waiting until you know for sure that they’re on the plane and up in the air,” Joe finished.  “It’s okay, Methos.  I used to do the same thing, every time you flew someplace.  Even back in the days when they’d let non-passengers go right up to the boarding gates.”

“I know.  I miss that.  It seems colder, somehow, saying goodbye outside security.”  Although even that was better, in the new airport design.  Methos and Jobey were now sitting in a café on the fourth floor.  Three stories below, spread out like a great transparent nuglass labyrinth, was the security center, so anyone who cared to could sip tea in luxury and watch their loved ones progress, mouse-like, through all the various tests and checkpoints.  Milly and Duncan had already successfully passed the initial bank of metal-detectors and had allowed their cheeks and fingers to be swabbed for explosive residue.  They were now sitting in a holding area, waiting with all the other passengers to be called into the huge long row of private cubicals, where they would disrobe completely and submit to the full body inspection.  An awkward business, always, but neither Duncan nor Milly seemed particularly tense; they had their heads together over one of their new phones, laughing and chatting away.  Methos watched them with a trace of melancholy.  “She looks happy, doesn’t she, Joe.”

“Yes.”  Joe said, following his gaze with a fond smile.  “Relaxed and happy and having the time of her life.”  He glanced over at his husband.  “You know what she said to me at breakfast?”

“What?” 

“That she’d expected Mac to be stared at and flirted with constantly when they were out and about together.  She’d never expected that *she* would.”  Jobey smiled.  “I think she’s quite enjoying the experience, to tell the truth.”

This was true.  Part of Duncan and Milly’s ‘night on the town’ had clearly been spent in some high-end salons and boutiques.  Not only had Mac shown up at breakfast with freshly trimmed hair and a new leather jacket Methos didn’t want to know the cost of, Milly had arrived in a brand new white linen suit that simply breathed expensive elegance, one that showcased her curves for once, rather than fighting them.  Judging from the attentiveness of the wait staff over breakfast and the number of heads that turned her way as they walked through the airport, Mac was going to have to get used to politely—and repeatedly—staking his claim.  “Amazing what a few thousand dollars of imported Parisian couture can do,” Methos said snidely.  Joe shot him a disapproving look.  Methos sighed and squeezed his hand apologetically.  “Sorry.  Don’t mind me, Joe. I know it’s not the clothes.  It’s all Milly, of course it is.  I’m just feeling particularly old and curmudgeonly today.”  He shrugged, looking down again at the happy couple.  “I just hope they both remember to tone it down a bit once they reach Paris.  Standing out that much from the crowd is never a good idea.”

“Come on,” Joe said sympathetically.  “Good as the tea is, somehow, I don’t think it’s going to cut it for you today.  You need a beer, my friend.  Why don’t you let me get you one?  The selection is pretty limited, but I think I saw a couple bottles of imported Guinness in that cold case over there…”

“That would be wonderful.” Joe nodded and went to the counter, where the comely young Barbadian attendant was more than happy to fulfill his request.  She was even happier to fill the time between passenger rushes flirting with Joe outrageously, probably in the hopes of some monetary appreciation.  For a moment Methos considered interfering, and loudly and obnoxiously staking his own marital claim.  But as Joe laughed musically and leaned against the counter, launching into a story about some of the celebrity musicians he’d played with in his day, Methos reconsidered.  They *did* have plenty of time to kill, and his husband enjoyed the wide-eyed attention of an attractive young woman as much as any man.  Besides, they could more than afford a generous tip.  Methos smiled, finished his tea, and went to use the public computer terminal that was located in the corner.

Perhaps it was silly, using a public terminal when he had one of the world’s most advanced smartphones currently tucked into his pocket.  But Methos wanted to check the Jeannette Montgomery account, and he was much more worried about the possibility of the inquiry being traced back to his new phone number than he was about random hackers getting his password and emptying the account.  Amanda had taught him a few tricks for avoiding the later, so he employed them as he logged in, stifling a snigger as the young lady at the counter said “Byron and the Undead?  *Really?*” in tones of deep awe.   *As far as I can remember, you never actually played with Byron, Joe,* Methos thought as he typed.  *Still, far be it for me, of all people, to question a good story.  And I think Byron would be pleased to know that the mere mention of his name can still dampen panties, even after all these decades.  Shame I now look far too young to use my best Mic Jagger stories…now, those were golden, in their day…*

The account page opened.  Two new deposits had been made within the last two hours…by internet transfer rather than cash deposit, a change Methos should have found highly interesting.  He would have, if he hadn’t been too busy staring at the amounts.  $4.10. And $30.56.

He froze.

A second later he was striding across the café and throwing a hundred dollar American bill on the countertop, grabbing Joe’s arm with his other hand.  “Joe.  We need to go.  *Now*.”  The pretty waitress stared at Methos, open mouthed, but Joe asked no questions.  He quickly followed Methos out of the cafe, new feet easily keeping up with Methos’s fast, ground-eating gait. “What is it?” Joe asked under his breath.

“There are two new deposits in the Jeannette Montgomery account, Joe.  Three dollars and ten cents.  And thirty dollars and fifty six cents.”

“But that’s…” Joe frowned as he visualized the numbers in his head.  “That’s March 10th, 3056.  What the…”  And then he paled, went absolutely sheet-like white.  “Oh. Oh *no.*  BC, not AD.  Methos…”

“That’s right,” Methos nodded tightly, hurriedly steering them around a booth selling flowers and a display of native island art.  “It’s my birthday. My real birthday.  Which only one person in _the whole god damned world_ knows, besides you.  Cassie, Joe—the Watchers have Cassie.  Or else they have Sandra and are using her to get information out of Cassie, which amounts to the same thing.  And if they have access to Cassie, then they don’t just know my real birthdate—they know _everything._ Including exactly where we’re standing and what words are coming out of my mouth right now.”  Methos started heading toward the ridiculously long, multi-story escalator that would take them down to the security floor.  “Somehow we’ve got to get to Duncan and Milly, then get us all somewhere less public, more defensible.  Fuck, Joe.” His voice became laced with despair.  “This is an airport.  We had to go through three banks of metal detectors and two pat-downs just to get this far inside. I don’t have so much as a holdout dagger in my boot.  Let alone a gun or my sword…”

But Joe already had his phone out, was dialing even as he kept pace with Methos’s long strides.  “I’m calling the Sprout now,” he said.  “Look, she and Duncan are still in the holding tank; they haven’t been called into the strip-and-prod yet.  It should be easy enough for them to say there’s been a family emergency and turn back.  Hang on, it’s ringing…”

They were too late.  Methos saw the moment Milly’s phone started to ring and she glanced down at it--even from this distance it was easy to see that she was startled.  But she never got a chance to answer.  Six people dressed in the distinctive red vests of Barbadian airport security were approaching her and Duncan.  Methos watched while a small conversation ensued, presumably of the “Please come with us, sir and madam, we’d like to ask you a few questions” variety; Methos thought he could see both Duncan and Milly nod as they stood up, even thought he saw MacLeod smile charmingly.  Then…so fast Methos almost missed it—MacLeod lashed out, levelling the security guard with one punch.  And Milly calmly and collectedly kicked the legs out from under another.

Hopeless.  It was hopeless, Methos knew, even as he began to run down the remaining steps of escalator, even as he saw Milly effortlessly dispatch Guard Number Three and felt an unmistakable flare of pride.  Joe was right.  The girl *had* learned a lot under MacLeod’s tutelage.  But there could only be one outcome. The two were trapped in a room specifically designed to be escape proof, lest the mandatory body search turn up something unsavory.  And the word that Milly and Duncan were Trouble with a capital T had already begun to spread. Already there was a soothing voice coming over the loudspeakers, calmly requesting in a variety of languages that passengers and guests stay exactly where they were; a truly awe-inspiring number of red-vests were converging on the area, like white cells surrounding a pathogen. Just before the escalator carried him too low to continue seeing into the holding pen, Methos saw one of the new red vests spray something in MacLeod’s face.  His heart sank. The spray could only be Tritaxmatazine, an inhalable knockout gas strong enough to fell even an Immortal like MacLeod with just one breath.  It was vicious and efficient and very, very illegal, if you weren’t a law enforcement official.  Or an airport security guard, apparently.  Or Methos himself, who had used a slightly lower-concentrate version as his home’s Emergency Procedure Z.  Well, actually, it was illegal for him, too…

“Monsieur!  Monsieur Pierson!” a voice shouted up the escalator.  “Step this way please!  We have a few questions.”

Pierson.  A name Methos hadn’t used in more than forty years.  A name nobody, absolutely no one on earth, should be calling him now.  Methos wanted to laugh.  After all, where was best place to take one of the world’s most dangerous Immortals prisoner, the one place on earth you could practically guarantee he’d be unarmed?  Why, at an airport, of course.  And what was the best way to capture him?  Put on a security vest and pretend he was under suspicion of terrorism, then Tritax him, drag him into a locked back room, and do away with him before anyone was the wiser.  Beautiful, really.  A shame Methos hadn’t thought of it, himself.  Methos quit running…the escalator still had a full story to go before it reached the bottom…and looked at the speaker, who was wearing another of the ubiquitous red vests.  She was one of a group of four, but more were coming.  Methos looked up; a similar group was standing at the escalators’ top.  He turned to Joe, who had halted right behind him.  “Pierson,” Methos said quietly.

“Watchers,” Joe agreed.

“They have Tritaxmatazine, Joe.  They already used it on MacLeod.  Probably on Milly, too.”

“Damn.”  Joe surveyed the group of security personnel below him, then glanced at the other one above.  “I guess that means we’re screwed, then.  Give me a kiss.”  Startled, Methos did, meeting his husband’s lips in a kiss that was as pulse-pounding as it was brief.  When Joe pulled back, he brandished his cane---largely unnecessary, now, but still carried whenever they travelled, just in case—and raised his eyebrows.  “I love you, Methos.  To the end of this world and into the next.  What do you think--should we give in quietly?  Or resist and take an honor guard down with us?”

“Honor guard, I think.  Looks like they’re doing a good job at keeping all the civilians out of the way, so we won’t hurt any innocent bystanders by mistake.  Let’s make them pay dearly for the privilege of taking us.”  There were only a dozen steps left to the bottom, now, melting away into the landing with astonishing speed.  Ten steps.  Eight.  “Joe? I love you, too.   More than you’ll ever know.”

“Idiot.  Of course I know.” Joe smiled dazzlingly.   “Come on. Let’s do this.”

Methos would never be entirely sure just how many red-vests he incapacitated before the first whiff of Tritaxmatazine hit his nose.  He was pretty sure that he managed at least three…and that Joe, armed as he was with what amounted to a giant metal bludgeon that kept the red-vests just slightly too far away to spray his face, took out quite a few more.  It was slightly embarrassing, being upstaged in a fight by his eighty-six-year-old mortal husband.  But very satisfying, too.  God, but Methos loved that man!  It had all been worth it…every damn moment had been worth it, just to spend these last few years at his side…

Methos slid into unconsciousness with a great big smile on his face. 

***

 _Motion._ That was the first thing Milly was aware of when she came back to consciousness…the sense that the world was moving under her.  That, and the continuous drone of a very noisy, very old-fashioned internal combustion engine filling her ears.  What the hell?  Had all the solarplanes been grounded, somehow, and she and Duncan ended up in a plane built decades ago, instead?  Then Milly realized that she was lying flat on her back on some kind of cold, hard surface, and that both her hands and feet where bound, and remembrance came flooding back.  Oh.  *Oh.*  Not travelling, then, at least not voluntarily.  Taken prisoner. 

Damn.  It had started out as such a nice day, too…

“Dr. Porter?  Dr. Porter.  Please wake up.  Please?”

The words were in a woman’s voice, a voice Milly was pretty sure she’d never heard before, although she recognized its accent—American, with a heavy Hispanic underlay.  Whoever the woman was, she seemed quite upset, urgently pleading for Dr. Porter to wake up over and over again.  Milly decided to tune her out for a moment, focusing instead on the surprisingly difficult task of re-booting her brain and sorting through her memories. 

They’d been at the airport in Barbados, hadn’t they?  Yes—she and Duncan had hugged Methos and Joe goodbye, then started weaving their way through the glorified rat-maze that was modern airport security.  They’d been about halfway through when a voice had come over the loudspeaker in their holding tank, announcing that, due to the extremely high volume of travelers, passengers currently in the holding tank might have to wait an hour or more for their body inspections.  A highly suspicious announcement, in retrospect, since less than a third of the seats in the tank had been taken.  But both she and Duncan had been too busy, flirting and laughing and simply enjoying the day, to pay much attention.  Duncan had pulled out his brand new phone and set about making reservations for “Dr. and Mr. Dido” in Paris.  Milly had leaned over his shoulder for a while, making unhelpful comments until he finally shooed her away.   A few moments later, she’d become so absorbed in her own phone that he’d actually had to poke her in the shoulder to get her attention.  “Mmmmwhat?” she’d murmured.

“I *said*, I’ve made us reservations at my favorite hotel in Paris,” Duncan had answered.  “It’s a special place, Milly; I think you’ll like it a lot. The desk clerk tried to tell me that they were all booked up, but I dropped a few names.  Long story short, we’ll have the honeymoon suite…” He’d frowned, looking down at Milly’s phone.  “What’s that?”

“Project Haystack.  Minerva e-mailed me a whole batch of new simulation results, based on the new parameters I gave her last night.”

“Is that wise?” he’d interrupted, looking very alarmed.  “These phones have to stay clean, Milly, and you know what that means.  No contact with our friends back on the island, except for Me…Alex’s new phone.  Not even with their computer.”

“I took care of that,” Milly murmured, still distracted.  “I opened more than thirty free e-mail accounts, each one set up strictly to forward the information to the next.  And used a few of Alex’s more devious tricks to confuse the message’s origins.   Safety isn’t what I’m concerned about.  Look.”  She’d pointed wonderingly at the little screen.  “This has to be it,” she said.  “It has to be.  All the points line up with places on Alex’s list of places that would have been significant to the members of the Sanctuary…and not just ordinary places. *Sacred* places.  Places that have been Holy Ground for time out of mind.  Lourdes. Montmartre in Paris, where St. Denis lost his head.  The Sanctuary itself.  I think even Darius’s church has a dot, along with more than a dozen others.  That strange long line to the northeast on the fifth diagram I could never figure out—in this simulation, it ends directly over Glastonbury Plain.  It all makes sense.  It *fits.*”  Milly enlarged the map on the screen, scrolling to the center.  “But if we line up all the diagrams at this scale, the center point…it’s nowhere.  It hits right in the middle of a completely unremarkable piece of French countryside.  The nearest town is Bordeaux, which I admit has to be more than random chance, given that that’s where the airport is that all the Deposit Makers departed from.  But this location is a good fifteen kilometers northeast of the town’s outskirts.  I don’t understand…”

But Duncan had looked very, very startled.  “Fifteen kilometers northeast of Bordeaux,” he’d repeated in a whisper.  “Milly?  Can you zoom in closer?  I need to have a better look.”  Frowning, Milly had done so, and watched as Duncan’s entire body stiffened.  “Oh, god,” he said, already fumbling for his own phone, which he’d replaced in his jacket pocket.  “I’ve got to call Methos.”

“Duncan?  Duncan!” He’d looked up at her wildly.  “I don’t understand,” Milly said helplessly.  “This place…you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it Holy Ground?”

“It *was*,” Duncan had answered, fingers still fumbling clumsily to get the phone out of the stiff new leather pockets.  “It isn’t any longer.  Or at least that’s what I’ve believed for decades.  I need to call Methos…I have to ask him…”

But he’d never gotten the chance.  Just as Duncan had finally succeeded at pulling his phone free, Milly’s own phone had come to life, flashing Jobey’s new number as the caller ID.  Milly started to answer.  But she’d never gotten the chance either, as just at that moment, four red-vested airport security personnel had arrived.  “Monsieur, Madam,” said the leader—an older man, grey-haired, speaking with enough authority to completely drown out the phone’s insistent ringing.  “Accompany us, silvousplait. We have a few questions we must ask.”

Duncan had given them what Milly now knew was his very best innocent look.  “Is there a problem?”

“There appear to be a few…ah…irregularities with your passport, Monsieur MacLeod,” the man had answered.  And Duncan had smiled at him brightly…and then driven his fist squarely into the man’s solar plexus. 

Bouncing around in the back of the mystery transport, Milly could now understood why, of course.  The security guard had called Duncan by his real name, when his passport proclaimed him to be Mr. Dido.  So even if the guard wasn’t a Watcher—and Milly hadn’t seen a tattoo--he certainly knew more than he should.  At the time, though, Milly hadn’t thought at all.  She’d just reacted—tucking the still-ringing phone securely into her waistband, neatly breaking the hold of the second guard who’d already grabbed her other wrist, and then kicking him in the groin.  She loved Duncan MacLeod, she trusted him utterly, and his battles were her battles.  No other explanation was needed.  

Milly thought she’d done pretty well, too.  The second guard to approach her had been much more cautious, but she’d still managed to kick his feet out from under him before she caught the overspray of the Tritax meant for Duncan.  And the world had gone dark…

“Doctor?  Doctor Porter!  *Please*!”

And now here Milly was, lying with her hands and feet bound in some kind of antiquated vehicle, with one hell of a headache throbbing at her temples and a strange woman still babbling with increasing franticness for Dr. Porter to wake up nearby.  Should she open her eyes, try to see what was going on?  No.  Duncan had lectured her in great detail about what to do if taken prisoner by an enemy, and pretty close to the top of the list was this adive: “If they think you are unconscious, do your best not to convince them otherwise.  Keep playing possum. At least until you’ve had a chance to listen hard and reconnoiter.”  Very well, then; reconnoiter Milly would.  She held her body still and listened as hard as she could.

The first thing she heard was a sputtering cough and a heartfelt groan.  The sound were muffled, and almost drowned out by the continuous drone of the engine—but even so, Milly could instantly tell who that groan belonged to.  Alex.  Oh, thank god.  Alex.  “Oh, thank heaven,” said the unknown woman, echoing Milly’s thoughts so closely that Milly almost gave a betraying twitch.  “I *must* talk with you, Dr. Porter.  And we don’t have much time.  I made sure you got less of the sleeping drug than the others so you would wake up earlier, but…”

“Where is my husband?”

Methos’s voice was very raspy, as if his throat was dry and he hadn’t used it in some time.  Still, he managed to instill enough menace and command into those four quiet words that Milly had to work hard to avoid flinching away.  Apparently the stranger felt the same way, because she gave an audible gulp.  “He’s here, Dr. Porter,” she said.  “So is your daughter and Mr. MacLeod.  They’re all well.  Just sleeping.”

“Remove my blindfold and let me see,” Methos ordered, in the same quiet, deadly tone.  For the first time Milly realized that the gentle pressure she’d felt over her eyes was, indeed, a blindfold of her own.  When Milly experimentally cracked open her eyes, however, she discovered that hers had slipped a little—enough for her to see under its bottom edge and determine that they were in the back of some kind of truck trailer.  There was bright sunshine spilling in through some tiny cracks in the ceiling near the top.  Milly couldn’t see Duncan or Jobey—presumably, they were both lying out of sight behind her back.  But she could see Methos, and the woman who was currently scrambling to do his bidding.  Not only did she push the black cotton blindfold down Methos’s formidable nose to his neck, but she also helped him to sit up against the trailer wall so he could really see, in spite of his cable-tied hands and feet.  Milly saw Methos’s gaze sweep over her—somehow she knew he’d noted both her awake state and her slipped blindfold, though he betrayed no sign.  Then she watched him look past her, gaze lingering for several moments at the back of the compartment, before he finally returned his attention to the woman.  She was crouching at his side, her black-clad body swaying dangerously with the movement of the truck.  “Thank you,” Methos said icily.  “But you’ll have to forgive me—I’m not in the habit of holding polite conversations with my hands bound.  If you really ‘must’ talk with me, set me free.”

The woman gave a sad, choked little laugh.  “I truly wish I could,” she said.  “Believe me, this is not how I envisioned our reunion going.  But…” She shook her head regretfully.  “Dr. Porter, don’t you recognize me?  It’s been more than twenty-five years since I last sat in one of your lectures, and I know I’ve changed a lot.  But still…”

She moved into a beam of light coming through one of the larger cracks, let it fall across her face.  Milly, working hard to control her expression, suddenly had a lot to control. The woman was none other than Rebecca Burns, the youngest of the three Deposit Makers. 

But it appeared that Methos’s recognition was far more profound.  He stared, frowned, stared some more…and then spoke in a total torrent of wonder, both joy and astonishment equally mixed.  “Maria?  Maria *Navarro*?”

The woman slowly raised her left hand.  A simple gold wedding ring glinted in the dim light.  “Maria Navarro-Tokalov, now,” she corrected gently.  “Or at least I was.  My husband Yuri passed away earlier this year.”  She lowered her hand.  “I believe you and Mr. Darwin once knew his parents, Alexei and Inna.”

“Alexei and Inna *Tokalov*?  You married Alexei and Inna’s boy, Maria?”  Maria nodded.  Methos let his head fall back against the trailer wall.  Milly had never seen him look so amazed.  “Then…given both that and your current company…you must have become a Watcher,” he said wonderingly.  “But you don’t have a tattoo, Maria.”

Maria twisted her arm so that the light fell on her wrist.  The skin was completely bare.  “The Watchers stopped tattooing new recruits in 2010, Dr. Porter.  We implant subdermal microchips now, a lot like the ones pet owners put in their dogs.  You have to have a radio frequency scanner to know for sure who is a Watcher now.  Or at the very least, feel the wrist for a small bump beside the ulnar artery.” 

“But how on earth did you ever become a Watcher in the first place?”

“That’s a very long story,” Maria answered.  “And not one that we really have time for, now.  Still…” She thought for a moment, then looked at Methos earnestly.  “Do you remember that internship I was up for my senior year, the one you wrote me such an amazing letter of recommendation for?  The one in the manuscripts department of the British Museum?”  

A pained expression came over Methos’s face.  He closed his eyes and nodded.  “Yes,” Maria said ironically.  “I see that you do.  Then perhaps you’ve even already figured out what happened next.  I got the internship, and when it was over and I was standing in London wondering what to do, the Watchers discretely contacted me with a job offer.  The British Museum is one of their prime recruitment grounds for new researchers.  Has been for centuries.”  Methos nodded again, eyes still squeezed shut.  Maria looked at him gravely.  “Not that I knew that then,” she said.  “And even twenty years later, when I *did* know, and finally knew who *you* truly were as well…I still couldn’t believe it.  Why, Dr. Porter?”  She swallowed, and Milly was surprised to hear that her voice had become choked with incipient tears.  “Why did you write that recommendation?  Why on earth did you risk coming into such close contact with your former life?”

“Because you were brilliant,” Methos said softly.  “Because the British Museum deserved to have you working for them, just as much as you deserved the honor of working there. And because it truly didn’t seem like that much of a risk, not really.  Joe and I talked about it, but there weren’t any Watchers still on the staff there at that time, and everyone we’d known in England had believed we were dead for years.  There just wasn’t any reason for anyone to connect lowly Watcher Researcher Adam Pierson with Alex Porter, the even lowlier professor of a state university linguistic program in the USA.  No matter how glowing a recommendation said professor wrote.”  His eyes blinked open.  “Maria.  The day Joe and I left Las Cruces, I was Challenged by an Immortal…an Immortal who wore the Watcher tattoo on her wrist. I’ve always wondered just how it was that she found me in New Mexico.  Is *that* how?  Did she somehow connect Adam Pierson to Doctor Porter through you?”

“No,” Maria said vehemently.  “No.  I swear to you, Doctor Porter.  No one ever learned your secret from me.  Nor from Yuri nor his parents, nor from Dr. and Dr. Clarke, nor from anyone else who loved you.  And they never will, either; we’ve all sworn to it.  That’s why…” The truck made a sharp turn, briefly knocking Maria off her feet.  She cursed, got back up, and then stood a moment, listening to the truck’s engines.  “Slowing down,” she said.  “We must be almost there.  Dr. Porter, you *must* listen to me.  The whole reason I woke you up early in the first place is that I was worried you might recognize me--and you can’t.  You simply can’t.  If any of the other Token Bearers suspected I knew you, they’d suspect my loyalty, too.  And that would be bad for all of us.”  She shivered.  “Very, very bad.”

“Token Bearers? Plural?” Methos said sharply.  “There is more than one Immortal who has infiltrated the Watchers, then?”

“No.  Not anymore.”

“But…”

“The last of the Immortal Token Bearers died over a year ago, giving his head to Duncan MacLeod.  Today’s Token Bearers are all mortal.  And they haven’t just infiltrated the Watchers.  They *are* the Watchers,” Maria said bitterly.  “Forgive me, Dr. Porter, but it’s been nearly three decades since you and your husband killed off your Watcher identities in Portugal.  You can’t possibly imagine what’s happened to us during that time.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll do my best.  But it’s another very long story.”  Maria dry-washed her face for a moment, clearly trying to think.  “All right.  There have been mortal Token Bearers amongst the Watchers for centuries, ever since Kahvin the Holy died, and the Watchers purchased his Sanctuary from the Church.  Someone found Kahvin’s prophecy about The End of Time amongst Kahvin’s papers then…”

“The Watchers knew about Kahvin’s prophecy?” Methos asked sharply.

“Of course they do,” Maria answered, more bitterly still.  “There’s been a secret society of Token Bearers hidden within the Watchers since 1695, Dr. Porter.  And for the most part, those mortal Token Bearers were fairly benign.  They kept their oaths, simply observing and recording Immortal battles while they kept the prophecy safe for the next generation.  However, every now and then one would take it upon himself to…to change the course of destiny.  To see to it that the tide of Immortal power went in this direction or that.”  Maria pulled her hands irritably through her graying hair.  “Didn’t you and Mr. Darwin ever wonder why so many people who truly hated Duncan MacLeod suddenly showed up in Seacouver or Paris for no reason during the 1990’s?  It wasn’t all because taking Grayson’s Quickening suddenly made Mr. MacLeod such an irresistible target.  There was also a White Token Bearer working behind the scenes, manipulating events so that Mr. MacLeod would meet up with Challengers he might otherwise have gone hundreds of years without running across.  The White Token Bearers wanted him to start accumulating the power he’d need to become The One…” Maria’s voice became tight with barely restrained anger.  “And arranging Challenges was one of the *kindest* things they did.  Sometimes, when they thought an Immortal was too great a Challenge for Mr. MacLeod, or else was simply too moral a being for him to ever voluntarily fight, they just beheaded him or her.  On Holy Ground.  Or someplace else where there was no other Immortal to absorb the Quickening, and the Immortal’s energy would be lost.  They thought that was better than letting it go to the Highlander’s final opponent…”

Methos looked like he was about to vomit.  “Horton was a Token Bearer?”

“Who?”  Maria looked startled.  Then comprehension dawned.  “Oh.  Of course.  James Horton, the murderer of Darius the Good…and Mr. Darwin’s brother-in-law.  Naturally you’d think of him. But no.”  She shook her head.  “So far as I know, Horton knew nothing of the prophecy.  But it wouldn’t surprise me if some of his followers carried Tokens.  Or if several of the Immortal murders attributed to him after the fact where actually carried out by Token Bearers eager to use him as an excuse.”  Methos nodded slowly.  Maria’s voice got even tighter.  “Horrible as it was, though, the White Watcher Token Bearers of the 1990’s were content to stay hidden, pulling strings behind the scenes.  But as the twenty first century began, they suddenly became much more aggressive.  They started making sure that Token Bearers were in key positions of authority within the Watchers.  Security in general was heightened, and new recruitment severely curtailed…”

“Yes.  I remember.”  Methos interrupted.  “It’s why Joe and I faked our deaths when we did, in 2006.  There was talk about making it mandatory to test every Watcher for Immortality, by forcing us to submit to a routine cut with a sterilized scalpel at least once a year.  I don’t know if that ever came to pass.  But it was obvious which way the wind was blowing.”

“It happened,” Maria answered gravely.  “For a few years, anyway.  They did it randomly, just as civilian employers do random drug testing.  Then, in 2011—I’m still not sure quite why—the White Token Bearers suddenly decided that enough was enough.  They staged what amounted to a coup d’etat…attempted to take over the entire organization…

“I know what happened,” Methos said softly.  “That was the year Joe and I were ‘killed’ in Las Cruces, and Joe said my real name as I revived. The man they’d been paying to watch us heard it, and reported in.  And suddenly the Token Bearers knew I was Methos, the Eldest and MacLeod’s final opponent—at least according to the prophecy.    There was no longer any reason to play it safe.”

“Maybe,” Maria said.  “There’s no way for me to know.  I was still taking classes at the Academy when all this happened, Dr. Porter.  I honestly thought I’d become just another Watcher archivist when I graduated, spend a quiet lifetime conserving manuscripts in the Great Library in Paris.  I never—“  She broke off. 

Milly was startled by how compassionate Methos sounded.  “What happened, Maria?”

“Let’s just say it wasn’t meant to be,” Maria answered grimly.  “I already told you that the White Token Bearers had been slowly infiltrating every level of the Watchers for years. In December of 2011, they finally staged their coup… only to discover that the Heads of Operations on three continents already carried Red Tokens in their pockets. The civil war that followed was very long, and very, very bloody.  There were three factions: the White Token bearers, who wanted Duncan MacLeod to be the One; the Red Token Bearers, who wanted it to be you; and everyone else, who either didn’t believe in Kahvin’s prophecy or didn’t believe that the Watchers had a right to interfere.  This last group was in the majority at first.  But that quickly changed.”  Maria’s jaw tightened.  “Today there’s only a handful of us that still remember what “Observe and Record” used to mean.  And we must pretend to belong to either one faction or the other, simply to stay alive.” She leaned toward Methos determinedly.  “Nevertheless, we *will* get you out of this, Dr. Porter.  You and your family, and Mr. MacLeod as well.  The plan is already in place.  But you must trust us and bide your time.  And *not* recognize me.  Please.” She bent her head.  “My life is literally in your hands.”

“Then I will do my best to protect it,” Methos said gently.  “Seeing as it appears that all four of us already have put our lives into yours.”  He raised his voice.  “Milly?  Duncan?  Joe?  Did you get all that?”

“Got it,” Duncan said behind Milly.

“Got it,” Jobey agreed.  “Maria, sweetie, you have no idea how good it is to see you again.   We’ll catch up later, okay?”

Maria was open-mouthed.  Methos regarded her pityingly.  “You’ve always been a brilliant linguist, Maria,” he said.  “And I’m sure you’ve become an amazing historian and archivist, as well.  But you were never cut out to be a prison guard.  Both Duncan and Joe shifted from real sleeps to fake ones more than five minutes ago.  And Milly’s been awake for longer than I have.”  He raised his voice again.  “Pix?  Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Milly said, taking advantage of her exposure to stretch and wiggle against her bonds.  “I just have one hell of a headache, that’s all.  And one of my hands has gone completely numb.”

Instantly Maria was kneeling down behind her.  “I can give you an antidote for the Tritaxmatazine, Dr. Alphonso,” she said, lifting Milly’s blindfold and showing her a small spray bottle.  “They will be expecting it to have worn off by now anyway, and it should help your headache clear.  May I?”  Milly nodded, and felt Maria spray something cool into both her nostrils.  “I’ll loosen your bonds a little, too,” Maria said, doing so.  “But I can’t set you free.  I’m sorry.  It would be far too suspicious.”

“I understand.”

“So do I,” Jobey said.  “But maybe I could get mine loosened a little, too?  And some of that antidote?  My head feels like it’s been used like a basketball.”

Maria flushed.  “Oh!  Certainly, Mr. Darwin.  Just one moment.”  She moved quickly out of sight.  A second later Milly heard the sound of the spray, and Jobey’s heartfelt sigh of relief.  “So you really are mortal, then,” Maria said softly.  “There’s been some question about that over the years, you know.  But an Immortal wouldn’t have woken up with a headache.”

“I’m just as mortal as you are, sweetheart,” Jobey answered.  “I—“  The truck lurched again, began to slow even more.  Milly could hear the sounds of what she assumed was a gravel parking lot crunching under the tires.  “Never mind,” Jobey said quickly.  “Better get back into position, Maria.  It wouldn’t do for you to be caught being too merciful to your prisoners.”

“No.”   Maria, jumping over their bodies, quickly made her way to the back of the cab.  She picked something up off the floor as she did—oh, god, a machine gun—and stood just inside the door, body rigid with attention.  Just as the voices outside moved closer, though, Methos spoke quietly. “Maria?”

“Yes, Dr. Porter?”

“I know we don’t have much time, but I need to know one thing more.”  He hesitated, and Milly got the impression that whatever he was going to ask was difficult for him.  “The, ah, the deposits.  In my various charitable accounts.  Did you…”

“Yes, that was me,” Maria answered, speaking in hushed rush.  “Me and a handful of like-minded friends.  We had to get in touch with you somehow, had to warn you of the Token Bearer’s plans to retrieve you and Mr. MacLeod.  But the Token Bearers have eyes and ears everywhere; I could think of no other way to contact you that they wouldn’t discover.  Dr. Clarke was the one who discovered those accounts.  She found Jeannette Montgomery’s by accident a few years ago, when she read an article that mentioned the grant that had always funded her work; Dr. Clarke remembered that Jeannette had been the civilian so badly hurt by Kronos, and thought it was suspicious that she should receive such fortuitous long-term funding, starting the year she was attacked.  She then found the others by researching other important people in your and Mr. Darwin’s life who had charitable foundations set up in their names.  I was the one who thought if we made deposits in small amounts that symbolized dates of significance to you we could get your attention, and perhaps you’d communicate with us in the same fashion.  That’s what the numbers all were, you know: dates Dr. Clarke and Mr. and Mrs. Tokalov thought you would recognize.  You and Mr. Darwin’s birthdays…your wedding…the, ah, the day the other three Horsemen were killed…”

“Yes, yes, I’d figured that out,” Methos said impatiently.  “But Maria, the last two numbers you deposited were special.  How did you…”

“Oh.” Maria sounded taken aback.  “Those numbers were given to me by another prisoner here.  I still don’t know how she knew what we doing, but a few days ago she gave them to me, told me to use them when all else failed.  When I heard about the retrieval team finally leaving for Barbados yesterday, I knew I didn’t have anything left to lose.  I transferred the money long-distance as soon as I could.”  Maria laughed hollowly.  “It seemed a long shot, but I was desperate.  Stupid, really.  Obviously, it didn’t work.”

“No.  No, Maria.  It worked all too well,” Methos said softly.  “This prisoner.  Is her name some version of Cassie?  Cassiopeia, perhaps?  Or maybe Cassandra?”

“I don’t know,” Maria answered.  “She never gave us a name.  You can ask her yourself later on.  You’re almost certain to be put in the same cell, there aren’t that many places to keep prisoners here.  Most of the dungeons are underwater, now.”  And while Milly was still reacting to the ominous sound of *that*, Maria said something even more chilling.  “But she isn’t Cassandra the Immortal Seer, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said.  “This prisoner didn’t come here until after Cassandra lost her head.  That very evening, in fact.  She just walked up to the front gates and rang the bell…”

Methos went absolutely white.  He murmured something—to Milly it sounded like:  “2036.  It’s 2036.  Cassie *told* me that Sandra was going to lose her head this year.  Why, why didn’t I remember before?”  The exact words were drowned out, though, by Duncan’s incredulous ones:  “Cassandra is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Who took her head?”

Maria looked at him levelly, chin bravely raised.  Her voice, though, was anything but brave. No. It was unfathomably sad.  “We did.” 

The truck suddenly lurched to a stop.  Multiple shouts filled the air outside of the truck; Maria stiffened, then shook her head with regret.  “And I am out of time,” she said sadly.  “Mr. MacLeod, I promise I will tell you everything—everything—about the way your friend died.  When I can.  If I can.  For now, however…” She turned toward Methos.  “Dr. Porter?”

“Yes, Maria?”

“I may never get another chance to tell you.  But—“ Her voice choked.  “You and Mr. Darwin changed my life, you know.    I never could have stayed in college at all without your help, let alone ever understood…well, never mind that now.  Just—I’d been in England for about four months when I learned about your…your murder. Yours and Mr. Darwin’s.  And I mourned.  More than you can ever know.”  She exhaled shakily.  “If something goes wrong, please know that I—and all my friends—did everything we could to keep it from happening again.  All right?”

The door of the trailer slid up. 

*** 

“Well,” Methos said sarcastically, some ten minutes later.  “It appears that for Watchers, the new black is…drumroll, please…black.  I like your outfits, people. I haven’t seen so many pairs of solid black pajamas since the time at UNM when one of the med school kids dyed all the student scrubs black for a Halloween prank.  Or were you attempting to imitate ancient Japanese ninjas instead?  If so, you really should give up now.  You simply haven’t got the moves.  Right, MacLeod?”

“Right,” Duncan answered, grinning toothily.  “Though I wouldn’t mind showing you some.  What do you think?” he asked one of the guards currently propelling him over the pavement.  “All you have to do is ask.  Well.  And untie my hands…”

*Smart-ass-y-ness as a means of self-defense* Milly thought, inwardly rolling her eyes.  She understood why both Methos and Duncan were doing it, though.  Their little group of four was clearly outnumbered--there were three guards guiding each of them away from the truck, one holding on to each of their elbows, another following with a machine gun trained on each of their backs.  Another dozen had formed a circle around them all. Duncan and Methos had maneuvered things so Milly and Jobey were in between them, and were keeping up the irritating commentary as a way of focusing the guard’s attention on themselves, away from the more vulnerable, mortal members of the party.   A very gallant thing to do, on the whole.  Milly just hoped it didn’t backfire.

Maria was not among their escort.  The moment the door in the trunk had opened, she’d been curtly thanked and dismissed.  Milly thought she saw a hint of relief flash in Maria’s eyes, but it was hard to tell, as the woman had instantly slipped into impassive soldier-face and melted away.  Milly and the others had had their foot bindings cut and their blindfolds removed before they’d been manhandled out of the truck.  Now they were marching along over a seemingly endless expanse of hot, aging asphalt, a high chain-link fence to their left.  The fence was topped with a truly intimidating number of rows of razor wire, but the solid phalanx of guards blocked her view of what lay beyond it.  “Jobey?” Milly hissed under her breath.  The guards holding both her and Jobey could still hear her, but she didn’t care.  “Are you all right?”

“Fine, Sprout,” was Jobey’s immediate answer, warm and reassuring despite the fact that he was whispering, too.  “A bit woozy still, but otherwise undamaged.”  Somewhere to her left, Methos began a long, loud discussion of his particular guard’s personal hygiene habits.  Jobey shook his head, hiding a smile.  “How are you?”

“The same.  A bit dizzy, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” Milly answered.  “Do you have any idea where we are?”

“None whatsoever,” Jobey answered.  “But when we first got off the truck I caught a glimpse of some trees that looked like oaks, so I doubt we’re in Africa or Asia.  Europe, probably, or North America.  I’m afraid I can’t get any closer than that…hey!”

The marching circle had made an abrupt ninety-degree turn.  Like Jobey, Milly stumbled into her captors, but they were not allowed to fall—they yanked on both their elbows mercilessly to keep them upright.  The guards at the front of the circle abruptly dispersed.  Leaving them in front of a gate.

It was quite a gate.  Huge in proportion, it was made entirely out of gleaming black iron, both meticulously and macabrely wrought. Milly had honestly never seen so many iron spikes and skulls all in one place in her life.  The vast black darkness of the metal seemed to absorb the light, making the formerly spring-like weather suddenly feel cloudy and cold.  “Oh,” Jobey gasped.

“Jobey?”  Milly asked.  The older mortal looked absolutely aghast, staring at the gate as if had come out of nowhere and punched him from in the face.  “Jobey?” Milly asked again, more frightened by his reaction than she’d been by anything else that had happened so far.  “What is it?  Do you…do you *know* this place?”

“He does,” Methos answered for him.  “We all do, Pix.  Well, everyone but you.” 

There was a tiny circle in the very center of the gate.  One of the guards stepped up to it and pressed it smartly.  A tinny little ding-dong sound rang out, so completely incongruous with the razor wire and the gate that it somehow made Milly feel even more afraid.  She did her best to suppress it.  “Then where are we?”

Duncan answered this time.  “We’re a few kilometers south of Bordeaux, Milly.”

She blinked.  “Bordeaux?  *South*? But…” And was stopped from saying anything more.  Because the gate slowly swung open, revealing a vast inner courtyard.  There were high cement walls on three sides, all lit with—could it really be?—old fashioned, guttering torches.    Milly stared at them, straining her senses for that strange feeling, that Presence, that inner knowledge that the place she was treading on was Holy Ground.  She felt nothing.  “South,” she repeated quietly, and hoped her words would be vague enough that only Duncan would understand.  “South of Bordeaux, not north.  Then…this isn’t Holy Ground.”  *This cannot be the place the prophecy diagrams all pointed to.*

“No.” Methos answered.  “No, this isn’t Holy Ground, Pix.  Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.  This might actually be one of the most profane places on earth.”  He swallowed, looking up at around the torches.  “This…this is New Camelot.”

“New Camelot?” Milly repeated.  “The place where the Horsemen died???” 

But Methos could not answer.  The guards had divided up and moved forward, prodding him in the back with the tip of one of their weapons.  Duncan was next, herded after Methos through the gate into the gloomy courtyard.  Milly and Jobey were third and fourth.  As the cold metal of the machine gun touched her back and started to push her through the gate, Milly wrenched her eyes from their captors to stare at Jobey, who was regarding her sadly.  “Be brave, Sprout,” he said, the soothing words completely contradicting his terrified eyes.  “It will all be all right.  I promise…”

And the four of them were marched inside.

***

Inside was…one of the weirdest places Milly had ever imagined.

This was saying something.  Once upon a time, during her first year teaching at UNM, she’d allowed one of her colleagues to talk her into acting as a judge for the annual student Art & The Architect exhibition.  The students, who had been told to design “a single 10x20 studio apartment, created with an overall theme intended to challenge the occupant” had succeeded nobly at their goal.  Notable entries had included the apartment where all the furniture had been built out of working toilets, and the ‘neo-retro-feminist’ entry (Milly had never quite gotten up the courage to ask just what a neo-retro-feminist was) where all the light fixtures, coat racks, window ties etc. had been crafted from beheaded and dismembered Barbie dolls.  While doubtlessly making a noble and profound statement about The State of Female Equality Today, this last had bothered Milly enough to disturb her sleep for several weeks, although she hadn’t argued when the other judges had rewarded the creator with an Honorable Mention.  Milly had come away highly impressed by the younger generation’s passion and ability to follow through on its creative vision.  And also with brand new respect for interior design, and its heretofore entirely unsuspected ability to induce nightmares…

New Camelot put the students to shame.

It didn’t need anything so crass as beheaded Barbie dolls to fill the visitor with a deep sense of impending doom.  The building managed that all by itself.  Huge, labyrinthine, crafted entirely of cold, echoing cement, it told the visitor in no uncertain terms that she was an insignificant worm, one who was only alive and wriggling at all because some greater being was amused by her sufferings.  Just who that greater being was, Milly could not tell.  She thought she got some hints of his or her presence in the miles of oppressive, overbearing halls they were marched through, lit by hundreds more of the completely insane, old-fashioned torches.  But then they were marched into a cavernously large main room, and all Milly could do was blink in horrified dismay.   “My god,” she said.  “It looks like a nuclear fall-out shelter built by giants, who then hired a bunch of insane medieval recreationists to do the decorating.  What *is* this place?”

“You’re not far wrong, Pixie,” Methos answered, just a trace of amusement lightening his otherwise very grave face.  “This building was originally a secret submarine base, built by the French government during the last of the cold war.  Naturally, it was designed to stand up to any kind of attack, including nuclear ones.  As far as the furniture goes…well.”  He looked around him almost wistfully.  “I never did find out exactly what was in Kronos’s mind when he chose it.  I don’t even know if he built it himself —he could have, he was a very skilled blacksmith—or if he just killed the artist who did and moved in. I’d bet on the latter, though; it would have been more his style.  Frankly, I’m surprised to find it all still here.  I would have thought that someone would have carted it all off long ago, given the price metal scrap goes for these days.  But I guess Kronos was right.”  Methos shrugged sadly.  “Invest in good furniture, and it really does last forever.  Especially if it’s made out of iron…”

There certainly was no lack of iron.  The room was lit with more of the ever-present torches, but also by a huge iron fire pit, clearly created by the same hand as the gate.  It cast its eerie orange light over a large, low round table and chairs, including one especially overbearing piece that closely resembled a throne.  Everything was massive, oppressive, somehow teetering between medieval elegance and the gruesome chill of a horror movie set; Milly couldn’t help her shiver.  If this room and its furniture had truly been of Kronos’s choosing-or more intimately still, of his creation—she could finally understand why all three of the men in her life still spoke his name with such awe.  It was a bit like being given a peak into the man’s soul.  Such brilliant, terrifying, madness…  “Then this really is New Camelot,” Milly said softly as their escort silently dispersed and moved to guard the room’s exits, leaving her family to stand alone by the fire pit.  “This is the place where the Horseman died.”

“Only where Kronos and Silas died,” Duncan corrected.  “I took Caspian’s head in town.  Near the river.” 

“Truly, Mr. MacLeod?”  The new voice was feminine, cold, and sharp, cutting through the air like a knife.  “I always wondered about that, you know.  The Chronicles said it was so…but Chronicles, as I’m sure you are aware, are frequently wrong.” The voice became heavy with irony.  “Particularly when certain Watchers by the names of Joe Dawson and Adam Pierson are the ones responsible for writing them.  Am I not correct, gentleman?”

They all turned.  The group of black-clad guards securing the northern entrance parted like the red sea.  And through them stepped a woman.

There was no way to describe her without using the word “very”.  Very tall.  Very blond.  Very thin.  Very elegant—she was dressed in a smart sky blue suit that made Milly painfully aware of every single wrinkle and smudge her own white linen had acquired.  The woman paused for a moment, perhaps gauging their reactions, then shook her head with cold amusement.  “For instance,” she continued dryly, “According to the official record, all the Horseman lost their heads at the hand of the Immortal Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander.  Well, all except for the mysterious fourth Horseman known as ‘Death”, allegedly the Eldest of them all.  Who, for reasons passing all understanding, the Highlander allowed to live long enough to vanish back into the mists of history.  But somehow, we no longer think it happened in quite that way.”  Her eyes fell on Methos, oddly hungry.  “Did it, Eldest?  Or do you prefer Methos? Or Mr. Pierson, or Dr. Porter?  Or perhaps I should say…Librarian?”

Joe, looking very distressed, opened his mouth to speak.  Methos stopped him with a quick, restraining touch, and stepped forward in his place.  “I’m impressed,” he said with a little bow.  “Five of my names in as many sentences? You may be the first Watcher in history to ever have managed such a feat.  Well, besides my husband, of course.”

“Oh, I can do even better than that,” answered the lady.  “Feel free to call yourself Benjamin Adams, if you like.  Or Xiōngshǒu.  Or even Thutmose the Sculptor, if you prefer.” Joe hissed out a sharp breath of surprise, too startled to stop himself.  The woman shrugged.  “It’s all the same to me.”

“Really.”  Methos drawled, mockingly polite.  “It’s all the same to me, as well.  Please, do call me whatever name you wish.  I’m afraid that you have me at serious disadvantage, though.  May I know just one of yours?”

“Oh, certainly,” the woman answered agreeably.  “But I needn’t be so gauche as to tell you my name myself, Librarian.  I believe Dr. Alphonso, there, can make all the formal introductions propriety requires.”  Her beautiful lips twisted sardonically.  “Hello, Millicent.”

Three male heads twisted to look at Milly in confusion.  Jobey seemed the most confused of them all.  “Sprout?” he said gently.  “Do you know this…ah…lady?”

Her cheeks were burning as merrily as the fire pit.  But Milly nodded anyway.  “Sad to say, I do,” she said.  “Hello, Primrose.”

The heads all swung back toward the woman.  “*Primrose?*” the men echoed incredulously, in perfect chorus. 

It would almost have been funny, if it so emphatically hadn’t been.  “Yes, Primrose,” Milly confirmed.  “Gentleman, this is Dr. Primrose Bard.  Former professor of computer cartography at the University of Wisconsin, current director of Plex Earth. And--”  She sighed.  “My very, *very* ex-girlfriend.”  


	11. where the two worlds touch.

Later, Milly would be very touched by the way all the members of her strange family reacted to this news.  Jobey squeaked ‘Ex-girlfriend?’ in a completely shocked, completely angry kind of way, but it wasn’t an anger direct at Milly—no, his wrath was directed entirely at Primrose, as if he just couldn’t wrap his head around the concept that someone could have once dated Milly and then consented to let her go.  Duncan stepped in instantly behind Milly and put his hands lightly on her arms above her elbows, his presence one of such overwhelming acceptance and comfort that Milly wanted to simply melt backwards into his chest and hide there forever.  And Methos just nodded at her, all five thousand plus years of life and wisdom reflected in the deep understanding in his eyes.  “Dr. Primrose Bard.  The Pixie’s ex-girlfriend,” he repeated.  “Ah.  I see, now.  The final pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall into place.”

Primrose smiled.  She clicked her way across the floor and sat down upon the throne, smoothing her skirt with a prim, almost secretarial air.   She seemed oddly pleased.  “I thought they might,” she murmured.

“Well, they sure as hell aren’t falling into place for *me*,” Jobey retorted tartly.  “Sprout?  You and this woman…ah…dated?”

“For more than two years,” Milly confirmed.  “Right up until she stole my doctoral project and sold it to the CIA.  Somehow, all the romance just seemed to die, after that.”   Milly twisted her head to look up at Duncan.  “I—ah, I think I might have mentioned that I didn’t always have the best judgment when it came to women.”

His smile was beautiful.  “Never mind,” he said.  “Remind me to tell you all about all the years I spent making a fool of myself over Kate, sometime.  I think it evens out.”  Milly let out a strange sound, half sob, half laugh.  Duncan smiled down at her some more, voice dipping into a loving whisper only she could hear.  “Thankfully, both of our judgments have improved.”

“True,” Milly agreed.  She planted a quick kiss on his lips, then pulled his arms firmly around her waist and re-faced Primrose, glaring with all the fury she could muster.  “What the hell are you doing here, Primrose?”

Primrose’s icy smile never faltered.  She just nodded at Methos.  “The Librarian knows.”

“She’s a White Token Bearer, Pixie,” Methos said.  “The leader of them all, if I’m not mistaken.  Quite a powerful position, really. Especially when you also factor in that she’s the current Head of Plex Earth.” He inclined his head toward Primrose with reluctant respect.  “I now understand why Milly was never able to figure out who created that block on our island.  The one that protected it from being seen by the curious, Plexing masses.”

Primrose mirrored his respectfully inclined head with an almost impish glee.  “Indeed,” she said.  “Charming as Dr. Alphonso’s novice attempts at hacking into Plex’s servers were, I’m afraid they were doomed to failure from the start.  There never was an order blocking satellite images of your home from going public.  There couldn’t be; the images were never made in the first place.  The entire island was in a Phole.  One I myself created, the day you and Mr. Dawson first moved in.”

“Then Joe and I never really succeeded at hiding ourselves.  All the trouble we went to in Miami while Joe was sick—faking Joe’s death, even letting Duncan believe that he was gone—it was all for nothing.  You—and the rest of the White Token Bearers--knew where we were all along.”

Primrose smiled brilliantly.  “Oh, yes.”  She stretched her legs and arms luxuriantly.  “Truthfully, we’ve known where you were for decades, since approximately three days after you killed Brian Smith.  Oh, we might have lost track of you from time to time.  Moving to South Africa was a particularly brilliant move; we didn’t think to search for you and Mr. Darwin there for almost three years.  But apart from that?  Yes, we’ve pretty much always known where you were.  And we’ve done our best to keep you safe.”  She smiled at Methos’s baffled face.  “Surprised, Librarian?  I suppose that’s natural, given all the trouble you’ve had over the last few decades, from both mortal and Immortal Token Bearers alike.  I won’t say that a few of my fellow White Bearers haven’t, ah, occasionally taken matters into their own hands, and tried to eradicate you before the proper time.  But for the most part, it’s been the Red Token Bearers you’ve had to fear.”  She smirked.  “Your decades of constant locations and identity changes did, I think, at least serve to protect you and Mr. Dawson from them.  But then, they hardly had the same resources we did.”

“Plex Earth, you mean.”

 “Precisely.”

“But wait a minute.”  Joe sounded very confused.  “I though the Red Token Bearers wanted Methos to win the Game.”

“They do.”

“Then why were we in danger from them?”

“We weren’t, Joe, not in the way we thought,” Methos answered.  There was a predatory look in his eyes as he regarded Primrose, an expression of cutting, hawk-like intelligence as he put all the pieces into place.   “I think Dr. Bard is suggesting that the Red Bearers we’ve run into over the last few decades—the mortal ones, at least—only wanted to curtail my liberty, not behead me.  Spirit me away somewhere safe, keep me in reserve until 2036 came and the final battlefield was revealed.  Maybe even behead a few Immortals with me nearby, force-feed me on their Quickenings so I’d be strong enough to defeat Duncan when the great day finally came.”  Joe looked nauseated.  Methos eyed Primrose appraisingly.  “You, on the other hand, *do* want me to lose my head, I believe.”

Primrose wriggled a little, like a cat being petted into ecstasy, or a small child being told that it was about to have its favorite ice cream flavor for desert.  “Oh, yes.”

“Then why am I still alive?” Methos demanded.  “For that matter, if you knew where I was, why hesitate to come and get me?”  He frowned.  “Were you simply waiting for me to set foot off my island before you took me prisoner?  Is that where I made my big mistake?”

“Oh, no, not at all!”  Primrose shook her head.  “We White Token Bearers have had a plan in place to remove from your island for quite some time.  Quite a complex plan, I might add; your home is impressively well-defended, Librarian.  Truthfully, I didn’t expect more than a third of our agents to survive the extraction.  But of course, we are all willing to die to see that you don’t become the One.”  She shrugged carelessly.  “No.  The reason we didn’t act before yesterday is simple.  I was waiting for Millicent to solve the riddle of the prophecy maps before we did.”

Methos looked startled.  “You solved the map diagrams, Pixie?”

“I—might have,” Milly acknowledged.  “It wasn’t until I was sitting in security in the airport in Barbados, though.  Just before we were attacked…” She looked at Primrose accusingly.  “You were Watching me.  Spying on my e-mail.”

“Of course,” Primrose agreed, completely unashamed.  “I’m the head of *Plex Earth* now, Millicent.  Not only do I have the most powerful network of surveillance satellites ever built at my disposal, but the rest of Plex’s resources, including its hackers and its security personnel, are mine for the asking, too.  Did you really think you’d be able to keep your findings from me?  Simply by routing them through a few dozen free *Plexmail* cloud accounts?”  Milly flushed.  “Never mind, my dear,” Primrose said, voice icky-sweet.  “There’s really no reason to be ashamed.  Even if you weren’t cut out to be a master hacker, you still have *some* value.  The moment that Duncan MacLeod left for your island with the prophecy book in his hands I knew, if I waited long enough, that you’d be able to do what no one else on my staff could do: namely, figure out a way to solve those diagrams.”  She smiled at Milly condescendingly.  “I always said you had the most creative cartographic mind I’d ever run across.”

“Really?  Funny, how you never said so to me,” Milly drawled dangerously.  She was beginning to get more than a little fed up.   “Although, in retrospect, stealing my doctoral project should have been a clue.  But really, I never had the impression that my mind was my chief attraction for you.  Tits? Yes.  Mind, no.”

Duncan tightened his hold on her waist, half-comforting, half-warning.  Behind her, Milly heard Jobey say to Methos, in a loud stage whisper: “My god.  Have you ever noticed how much the Sprout starts sounding like you when she’s pissed?” and Methos’s hurried shushing.  Milly ignored them all.  Because Primrose’s sharp, glittery smile had suddenly disappeared.  “Poor little Millicent,” she said disdainfully.  “Did you really think I was interested in your *body*, child?  Hardly.  I wasn’t even during your firm years…and your thirties have not been kind to you thus far, my dear.”  Primrose shuddered slightly, like a dog trying to shake something unpleasant off its fur.  “No.  Seducing you was just another chore, I’m afraid.  Unpleasant.  But necessary, in order to keep you close.”

Milly’s voice became even more dangerous.  “And why was it necessary to do that, Primrose?”

“Because of *him*.”  Primrose practically hissed the last word, jerking her chin out at Methos.  “Stupid girl.  Do you really think you ever had one friend, one lover, one supportive teacher who WASN’T a Token Bearer?  From the moment the police first pulled you away from your grandmother’s rocking chair, as least one of us was always there—in the hospital, in your foster homes, in every school you ever attended.  You were an insurance policy, my sweet.  Our best chance for one day forcing that monster so inadequately known as ‘The Librarian’ out of hiding.”  Her red lips twisted.  “You see, Millicent, there was only one woman on this planet who ever meant anything to me, whose body I could look on with anything but disgust.  And *he*”—She nodded again at Methos, although this nod was colder, much more controlled—“killed her.”

If Primrose had meant these last words to shock, they had the desired effect.  Even Milly forgot her aching, rage-filled, humiliated heart for long enough to stare at Methos, confusion plain.  Duncan was doing the same.  Only Jobey seemed immune; he just frowned and murmured “Did you?” in a curious—but not terribly surprised—kind of way.  Alex, for his part, stayed perfectly calm; he maintained his casual pose, even taking a moment to buff his nails against his shirt and regard them critically before he spoke.  “I don’t know. I kill so many people,” he said, in a slow, edged drawl that—now that Jobey had pointed it out—really did seem a twin to Milly’s own.  *God,* she thought.  *I really do sound like him when I’m mad.  When did that start?  When I moved to the island?  Or long, long before?* “Dr. Bard will have to be a little more specific before I can say for sure.”

“Oh, I already know that you never knew her name,” Primrose retorted.  “She was known as ‘Primrose Bard’ for centuries—I adopted the name after you took her head, so I could continue her work in her honor.  Apparently you slaughtered her without so much as asking it, the day you killed Brian Smith.”  Methos flinched ever so slightly.  Primrose nodded to herself.  “But perhaps,” she offered, “You might remember her *title*, Librarian.  The one she was known by in the Sanctuary.  Harpist?”

Methos, Milly was alarmed to see, no longer appeared casual.  “Harpist,” he breathed, looking horrified.  “Bright Sky’s lover? The one who failed to make it to the Return?  *She* was the Immortal I killed the day we left Las Cruces?”

“’Lover,’” Primrose spat.  “You do persist in seeing everyone through your own twisted lens, don’t you?  *Student*, Librarian.  Student, not lover—although, given that you seduced Bright Sky and Robert Fairsword and even Kahvin the Holy himself into your bed, I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised that you paint everyone with your own carnal brush.  But hard as it may be for someone like you to understand, Harpist’s love for Bright Sky was chaste. Pure.  As innocent as any mortal daughter’s love for the woman who gave her birth.”  Primrose’s eyes narrowed.  “Harpist missed that Return, yes.  A man—a mortal king--heard her sing, and chose to hold her prisoner.  He blinded her repeatedly once he discovered her Immortality, even threatened to cut off her hands; it took her more than ten years to escape.  And when she did finally make it back to the Sanctuary, what did she find?  Bright Sky was dead.  Robert Fairsword was dead.  And Kahvin the Holy himself had abandoned his remaining children to hide in his study and indulge in heavy mourning, convinced he had failed both his followers and God.”  Primrose leveled her deadly cold gaze at Methos.  “Your insatiable lusts wrought far more damage than you knew, Librarian.”

But Methos had recovered from his momentary loss of control.  “Despite what you may have been told, Dr. Bard, I never had any influence over Kahvin the Holy,” he said calmly. “I was his librarian, nothing more.  It was Kahvin’s decision to take Bright Sky and Robert to the sands, not mine.  And it was their decision to go.  They willingly gave their heads and their power to Kahvin, to keep safe for his future champion.  The Man from the High Lands. Duncan MacLeod.”

“Fool.”  Primrose’s tone was very pitying.  “Did you really not know?  Kavhin’s choice of champion was YOU.  That’s why Robert and Bright Sky and all the rest really went to the sands that day.  If you had stayed to the end of the battles, instead of running away like the cowardly dog you are, Kahvin would have eventually offered his head to you.  His entire being, and that of every Immortal who’d come to rest within him.  Thousands of heads.  Multiple millennia of strength.  All of it. It would have been *yours*.” Methos looked stunned.  Primrose laughed bitterly.  “That’s why Kahvin went into mourning.  That’s why the Sanctuary fell into ruin.  That’s even why Kahvin eventually offered his head to the Kurgan—out of sheer despair.  He was so sure he’d failed.”

“I—no.” Methos was shaking his head helplessly.  “No.  You’re wrong.  Harpist got it wrong, Dr. Bard.  The Guide…he would have taken *my* head that day, if he’d been able.  And Kahvin wasn’t at all upset when I ran from the sands.  He *knew*…”

“It matters not.”  Primrose rose from her seat, waving her hand dismissively.  “Harpist founded the White Token Bearers the moment she Returned—a society dedicated entirely to seeing to it that you never became the One, Librarian.  When the Watchers took over the Sanctuary in 1695, she stayed on, sharing the prophecies with those few Watchers she deemed worthy.  With their help, she combed through the Chronicles, trying to figure out who and where you were.  It took her centuries to find you, Librarian.  And the moment she did, you took her head.  But that doesn’t matter, either.” Primrose sneered.  “*I* believe that your cowardice that day on the sands was divinely inspired.  Because here we are.  It is 2036.  Thanks to Dr. Alphonso, we now know where the final battle is to be.  Tomorrow, we will go there.  And Duncan MacLeod will finally take your head.” 

“No.  He won’t,” said Duncan MacLeod.

They were quiet words, but they rang through the cavernous room like a tolling bell.  Primrose blinked at Duncan several times, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard.  “No?”

“That’s what I said.”  Duncan released Milly and approached Primrose, taken a few strong strides towards the dais.  He looked extremely disgusted.  “It’s a simple word, Dr. Bard.  Surely someone as educated as you appear to be can comprehend it.  It means…no.  Not going to happen.  Never.”  Duncan shook his head expressively.  “I mean, the last person who tried to manipulate me into taking Methos’s head was Methos himself, and if he couldn’t succeed, nobody can.  Trust me, Doctor. I’ve already danced this dance.  There are no circumstances that would induce me to take Methos’s head.  None at all.”

“I think you will,” Primrose answered.  “The prophecy is very clear, Mr. MacLeod.  Besides, I don’t think you’ll really have an option.”  She smiled at him pleasantly.  “Surely you’ve noticed that none of the Challengers you’ve fought recently have actually been Token Bearers?  They’ve just been ordinary Immortals, ones who knew nothing of either Kahvin or his prophecy.  But as the Final Battle draws nearer, Immortals from all walks of life have been drawn to fight you.  It’s pure instinct; they couldn’t resist.  I believe the same thing will happen to you and the Librarian.  Probably the moment you set foot on the battlefield.”

“No.  Never,” Duncan answered.  But even Milly could tell that he didn’t seem quite so certain as he’d been before.

“Hmmm.”  Primrose shrugged.  “Possibly.  But even if you do somehow manage to resist, there is one more thing to consider.  Haven’t you wondered where your dear friend Amanda has been all this time?  Where on earth she could have possibly disappeared to?”  Duncan stiffened.  Primrose nodded happily.  “Yes, Mr. MacLeod.  I’ve had her in my custody for months.  Not here, not in New Camelot…I didn’t want to tempt you into making one of your famous last minute rescues. But we have her nearby.  Close.”  She leaned back in her chair pensively.  “Close enough to have her beheaded within minutes if you persist in refusing to do what I ask.  Just like Cassandra.”

Duncan’s fists tightened impotently.  “So it’s true,” he said.  “Cassandra is dead.”

“Yes.  I arranged her beheading myself.”  For the first time, some of Primrose’s confidence seems to slip.  “She died on the very same spot that Millicent’s diagrams seem to pinpoint, as a matter of fact.  It’s almost enough to make me think…” Primrose faltered for a moment, clearly considering something very unpleasant, then resolutely shook it away.  She refocused all her attention on Duncan.  “You knew Amanda was in trouble all along, didn’t you, Highlander?  The two of you have a strong psychic bond, just like you and Connor MacLeod once did.  I’m sure you remember just how…painful…it was to have that bond severed.  And also just how painful it was to lose your friend Darius to mortals, to know that his Quickening was gone for all time.  But I assure you, both of those things will happen to Amanda.  If you do not take the Librarian’s head.”

Duncan stared at Primrose, clearly wrestling mightily in his mind.  In the back of her own mind Milly suddenly heard a strange voice, like a memory she was recalling even if it wasn’t hers… _“Your life for the girl’s!  What do you say?”_  and Duncan coldly replying “ _I think she’d rather be dead.”_ What on earth?  She looked up into Duncan’s stony face, trying to understand…but Methos stepped forward.  His expression was almost as stony as the Highlander’s.  “I’m curious, Primrose,” he said bitingly.  “If you are so eager for Duncan to have my Quickening, why bring Amanda into this at all?  Why not just drag both of us to this so-called holy location and cut off my head yourself, forcing him to accept my energy?”

“Haven’t you guessed?” Primrose answered.  “Harpist told me long ago what really happens when you Immortals face each other, Librarian.  The way the defeated Immortal truly has to *be* defeated, before he loses his head.  Or some of the Quickening will be lost.”  She sneered at Methos derisively.  “You did yourself an enormous favor when you killed my Harpist, Librarian.  I know you didn’t succeed in forcing her complete surrender…her name would not have come as a surprise to you, if you had.  But I won’t take a chance on whatever portions of her you *do* carry being lost to the Tide.  So fight…and surrender totally…to Duncan MacLeod you must.  So that whatever is left of Harpist’s essence will be passed to him intact, along with your own.”  She waved a hand at the waiting guards.  Instantly, the four of them were surrounded once again.  “I believe most of you are already intimately familiar with the dungeons here.  I will give you until dawn tomorrow to say your goodbyes.  Good night.”

And they were bundled out of the room.

***

“Methos?”

“Not now, Mac.”

“But…”

 “I said not now, MacLeod.”

“But they have Amanda, Methos.  Not here, but close.  If we…”

They were again being shepherded through the submarine station, guided down into a truly terrifying maze of subterranean levels.  Milly, in addition to her own not-inconsiderable fear, could sense Duncan’s emotions too, almost as if they were coming from her own heart.  She could feel his panic, his urgent need to break free and hunt for Amanda.  Duncan thought they could do it, too.  Now that they were away from the submarine base’s main level, Duncan believed he could use the narrow halls to their tactical advantage, and with Joe and Milly’s help, easily disable their guards.  Then they could make use of Methos’s intimate knowledge of the base to escape. 

Just *how* Milly knew Duncan was thinking all this, she couldn’t say.  She just did, as clearly as she knew that the Prime Meridian ran through Greenwich, England.  Milly tensed herself, planning out how she could use her bound hands as a club and her still-free feet to trip and kick, and waited for her opportunity. 

But Methos heaved a long suffering sigh, and began speaking in a different language.  Milly strongly suspected it was Gaelic.  Still—and this unnerved her greatly—Milly didn’t have to know the words to somehow understand the gist of what Methos was saying.  He was counseling patience, urging Duncan to make nothing by way of an escape attempt until after they’d reached their prison.  Methos did indeed know these dungeons very well, and was confident he could escape at will, since it was a foolish man who lived with an Immortal like Kronos without figuring out how to escape any prison at hand.  He added, almost as an afterthought:  “Besides, our friend from the truck told us there was another prisoner here.  And I’m very sure she’s someone we want to meet.” 

Duncan didn’t like it.  Milly could feel the way the call to battle was singing through his blood, urging him to act.  But he nodded unhappily.  And they walked through another mile of dank, dark corridors.

At last they reached a big steel door.  It was set high in the wall with a huge turning lock, something like the entrance to a bank vault.  Methos assumed a very strained, “uh-oh” kind of expression, before the wheel was twisted and the door opened, revealing nothing but darkness inside.  They were shoved into that darkness one by one, and when the door had closed behind them it was blacker than night inside.  The door had sealed so solidly that there wasn’t so much as a crack of light to be seen coming from beneath it.  “Well,” Methos said.  “I think I may have just badly miscalculated.”

“You think?” Duncan retorted.   He began to mimic Methos sarcastically.  “’Don’t make a fuss now, Duncan, it will just get us into trouble’. ‘I know these dungeons like the back of my hand, Duncan.’ ‘Can escape anytime I want to, Duncan.’ God *damn* it, Methos….”

“I wasn’t expecting them to put us in the old armory!” Methos protested.  “Not when there used to be so many perfectly good cages lying about.  Besides, the last time I was here, this room didn’t have a door at all, or at least not one that was attached.  Kronos blew it off its hinges with explosives himself right after he moved in, when he couldn’t figure out the combination.  It never occurred to me that the Watchers would go to the trouble of replacing it.”

“Well, Primrose is nothing if not thorough, Johnboy,” a new voice chimed.  “She knew she’d be keeping you prisoner here eventually, so she had the door re-installed the moment she realized that all the other dungeon levels were under water.  Nevertheless, you mustn’t blame yourself for not anticipating it.” A faint lilt of humor entered the voice.  “After all.  Not *everyone* can see the future.”

 “CASSIE???”

The disbelieving shout came from both Methos and Joe.  It filled the dark space, seemed to echo off unseen walls.  The new voice laughed joyously.  “Yes, my loves, my dearest hearts, it’s me,” it said.  “Shield your eyes, now.  You too, Milly, Duncan.  I’m about to turn on the light.”

A light switched on.  It was a single lightbulb hanging from the exact center of the ceiling, encased in a metallic cage.  The cage cast vivid, gridded, bar-like shadows over the vast concrete floor, clearly underlining just how bleak and empty their prison was.  Once, perhaps, the place had been lined with shelves—Milly could see plenty of large metal brackets on the wall, grim leftover skeletons of the weapons storage locker the room had once been.  Now, though, the only furniture to be seen was a set of three rough wood benches, pushed haphazardly into a rough “u” shape under the lightbulb.  And amongst all this barrenness, standing near the door with one hand still lingering on the heavy, industrial electric light switch, was….

…the most beautiful woman Milly had ever seen.

It wasn’t the kind of beauty that revealed itself at first glance.   In fact, at the very first glance it would have been easy to dismiss the woman entirely, mistake her for any other sixty-ish lady of European descent.  She was shorter than Milly by at least six inches, but weighed perhaps another fifty pounds more, giving her a rounded, welcomingly grandmotherly form.  She was dressed in old-fashioned denim jeans and a t-shirt that had clearly seen better days—it bore a cracked and peeling picture of Kermit the Frog playing a banjo, with the caption “Someday, We’ll Find It” in faded 1980’s lettering.  Her snow-white hair was gathered in a single braid, and even that was quite messy, several long strands escaping to hang haphazardly around her face.  All quite ordinary; Milly didn’t think she would have spared the woman a second thought, if she’d seen her in Las Cruces walking around a grocery store, or touring UNM with a college-aged grandchild. And yet…and yet…

And yet if you took a *second* glance, you saw that the messy white braid framed a face that could have rivalled the world-famous bust of Nefertiti for sheer ageless elegance, and her eyes…oh, her eyes.  They were truly extraordinary, glimmering even in that single lightbulb’s sickly light with all the beauty of an exquisite pair of matched gray pearls.  Milly could have stared into those eyes for hours, gotten lost in them just as she could have any other work of art.  Still, extraordinarily beautiful as her eyes and face were, the way the woman looked was nothing compared to how she *felt*.  Peaceful.  Calm.  Full of a light that had nothing to do with the dangling bulb, one that nonetheless managed to transform the old, empty concrete-walled room into something as brilliant and welcoming as a palace.  Milly saw a look of incredulous, deeply painful love flash over Methos’s face.  A second later he had rushed to the woman and swept her into his arms, pulling her feet off the floor in his enthusiasm.  “Ooof.  Gently, Johnboy.  Gently,” the woman said, patting him comfortingly even as her face turned interestingly white.  “I am not the limber nineteen-year-old you remember.  And just at present, I have three cracked ribs.” 

Methos put her down at once, staring at her dubiously.  For the first time—why hadn’t she seen it before?—Milly noticed that there were several dark bruises shadowing the woman’s face.  “You’re hurt,” Methos said.

She shrugged easily.  “Not enough to worry about.”

“Three broken ribs is most definitely something to worry about, Cassie.  As is the black eye and the swollen lip.”  Methos pulled her directly under the lightbulb, tilted her face backward, and began examining her bruises with a practiced medical eye.  “God damn it, Cassie—as you yourself pointed out, you aren’t a teenager any longer.  Did you lose consciousness?  Are you experiencing any headaches or ringing in your ears?   

“Johnboy.  Relax, my love.  I don’t have a concussion,” the woman said comfortingly.  “And before you insist on stripping me down and performing a full-fledged medical exam on these old bones of mine--no, I have no other injuries.  Just a few bruises, which I’m coping with just fine—I expected them.  I knew all along what I was getting myself into when I came here.  And believe me, it was necessary.”  She smiled impishly up into Methos’s face.  “Our dear friend Primrose would hardly have tossed just *anyone* into the prison she had so lovingly reserved for you, after all.  I had to tell her several very painful home truths before she would.  Enough to prove that I really was a threat.  A bit of rough handling was only to be expected, after that.”

“You’re goddamn lucky she didn’t have you killed!”

“Ah.  I think you’re forgetting who you are dealing with, Johnboy,” Cassie said humorously.  “I knew all along that I’d get roughed up a bit—that’s simply the price I had to pay to be here now.  But dying at Primrose’s hands was never going to be my fate.”  For the first time, the woman’s inner light dimmed slightly. “I’m afraid that was my Sandy’s privilege.”

What little color there had been in Methos’s face suddenly went draining out.  He pulled back from Cassie as abruptly as if she’d been a rattlesnake, looking as if he’d been slugged in the gut.  “You knew then,” he said gruffly, hands clenching impotently at his sides.  “You *knew* that Primrose would take Cassandra’s head.  You…you always have.”

“Yes, Johnboy.  Always.”

“Cassie…”  For once in his life, Methos seemed to have run out of things to say.  He clenched his hands and turned away, eyes turned down painfully to the floor of their prison.

“It’s all right,” Cassie said—not to Methos, but to the rest of them, who had witnessed this exchange open-mouthed.  “I’m afraid Johnboy there has never quite come to terms with what it’s like to be me—to live in a universe without free will.  He just needs a moment, that’s all.”  She sat down on one of the rough benches, her inner radiance resuming its full sparkle.  “In the meantime…what’s a woman got to do to get a hug around here?  Joe Dawson, I’m ashamed of you.  Get over here and welcome me properly.”

“Cassie,” Jobey breathed.  He looked almost as shaken as his husband.  But he went to the woman and very carefully wrapped his arms around her, then brushed a kiss over her upturned cheek, even more carefully still.  He lingered for a moment, forehead pressed to her hair.  “I’m so sorry for your loss, honey,” he whispered.

“I know you are,” Cassie whispered back.  “You’re the only other human being alive today who can really guess what it’s like.  But it’s all right, Joe.  It really is.  You’re just going to have to take that on faith.”  She patted his back.  Jobey moved away, eyes suspiciously reddened. “And now it’s time to meet the rest of the family,” Cassie said, turning her brilliant gaze on Milly and Duncan.  “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod—what an honor it is to cross paths with you at last!  And Milly, child.”  She held out her arms.  “Come here, my dearest.  It is wonderful beyond wonderful to finally see you in person.  But one of the greatest ironies of my life is that, clearly as I have always seen you within the Tide, in the present moment my earthly eyes have developed some significant cataracts.  So come closer, please, child.  Come where I can get a good look at you.”

Milly did so, gingerly sitting herself on the bench at Cassie’s side.  An intense feeling of deja-vu swept over her.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I—do I know you?”

“You will,” Cassie answered, hiding a smile that nonetheless seemed to twinkle with the light of a thousand suns.  “One day, you will come to know me better than you ever imagined.  But for now?  The answer is no.  I’ve only ever seen you in the Tide.  And you’ve only ever seen *me* in dreams.”  She sighed a sigh of pure contentment, regarding Milly with all the fond pride of a grandmother.  “What a beauty you turned out to be,” she said.   “I always knew you would, of course…but it’s never the same, peeking ahead in the tide and actually experiencing a particular moment first hand.    You do us all proud, Millicent Gabriella Carolita Dido Margaretta Alphonso. And you,” she gave Duncan a pointed look… “are one VERY lucky man, Duncan MacLeod.”

“I know,” Duncan agreed.  He came and knelt down solemnly before Cassie.  “It’s my honor to meet you as well, Cassiopeia.  I—I have heard a lot about you.”

She twinkled at him.  “Not nearly as much as you should have,” she said.  “I’m as big a mystery to you as I am to Milly, I’m afraid.  But never mind.  I am, and have always been, a little hard to explain.  And while it is imperative that you understand a great many things now…sadly, I am not one of those many things.  We must save our time for more important topics.”  She raised her voice.  “Johnboy?  Joe?  Come gather ‘round, my loves.  There are a few things I must tell you.  Before we run out of time for good.”

Methos turned his head to stare at her over his shoulder.  He’d been crying, Milly was astonished to see, and now eyed Cassie with barely controlled frustration and rage.  But he nodded curtly and joined them, hands shoved deeply into his pockets.  “Before dear Primrose finds some way to force Mac and me to fight to the death, you mean,” he said.

“Methos!” Duncan rose to his feet.  “That’s not going to happen.  Not ever.  I swore to you…”

“Yes, I know,” Methos said tartly.    “And I also saw the look on your face when Dr. Bitchy up there informed you that she had Amanda.  What are you going to do, MacLeod, when she holds up her phone and shows you a live video feed of Amanda with a machete poised at her throat, too far away for her Quickening to come to either you or me?  More to the point, what are you going to do when she holds a gun to Milly’s head?  And what am *I* going to do, when she does the same thing to Joe?”  Duncan stayed poignantly silent.  Methos made a disgusted face.  “No, I’m afraid we are well and truly screwed, MacLeod.  Step by step, the two of us have been manipulated into this place from the beginning. I even allowed our last possibility of escape to pass, for one reason and one reason only….I wanted to see *this* little know-it-all again.  I thought Cassie might have some wisdom for us, something useful to impart.” His lip twisted sardonically.  “But I’d forgotten just how fond of speaking in riddles she is.  Not to mention just how terrifyingly fatalistic.  If she can sit there and say that Cassandra—her wife of forty years—losing her life and essence doesn’t matter, what makes you think she cares anything about us?”  He shook his head bitterly.  “I was a fool to ever trust in you, Cassie.”

“No,” Cassie said evenly.  “No, Johnboy, you weren’t.  All this—each and every thing that has happened—it was all meant to be.  No matter how tragic it may look on the surface.”

He eyed her coldly.  “Then you’d better start talking,” he said.  “And I warn you, Cassie—this time you had better speak clearly, with none of the cagey mind games and verbal puzzles you’re so fond of spouting.  Give us some answers for once, instead of just more questions.”

“I am,” Cassie said.  “I *can* now, Johnboy.  At last, I’m finally free to.  Because…we are here.  We are *now*.  And at long, long last, it’s finally time.”  She smiled joyfully.  “Which is very appropriate, because time is the whole reason any of us is here at all.  Three kinds of time, actually.”  She lowered her voice, murmuring the next three words reverently.  “ _Kronos.  Kairos._ And _Aionos.”_

The words seemed to echo around the dark room, vibrating with their own power.  Milly and Duncan and Joe all met each other’s eyes, feeling the strength of them, silently asking each other if they’d felt it, too.  Only Methos seemed immune.  “You know, I’m really beginning to regret ever reading those three words in the first place,” he said, throwing himself down onto the bench opposite Cassie and Milly.  “Damn it, Cassie.  If this is just more about Kahvin’s cursed prophecy…”

“It is,” Cassie answered easily.  “It has to be.  Because hard as it may be for you to believe, Johnboy, Kahvin really *was* able to see this far into the future.  He didn’t understand nearly enough, but he saw that The End of Time was coming.  And so, now, must all of you.” 

“Must we?”

“Yes.”  Cassie nodded.  She looked at them all earnestly, meeting each of their eyes in turn.  “I know that Methos has read Meritoles’ _Immortalia_ from cover to cover several times by now _,”_ she said.  “And I also know that he passed on what he read to the rest of you, so that all four of you already know what Kronos, Kairos, and Aionos really are.  You’ve also all been exposed to Meritoles’ greatest insight: the fact that the three realms of time lie together like blankets on a bed.  And sometimes where the fabric of one wears thin, another kind of time can poke through.”  She nodded at Milly.  “Your theory about Holy Ground was correct, Milly.  The places that mortals and Immortals alike call sacred tend to *be* sacred because they are places where just such a thin place in Kronos has occured, and a portion of one of the other realms has bubbled up through it.  They are places where a person can literally touch the serene eternity of _Aionos._ Or, slightly more rarely, the wild, untamed magic of infinite possibility that is _Kairos._

“But what Meritoles didn’t realize was this: the three layers of time were never meant to be completely separate.  Such bubbles are not flaws or mistakes.  No, they are an essential part of the universe as a whole, gateways that keep the three realms connected.  The layers are meant to constantly reinforce and support each other…if one layer was ever allowed to pull too far away from the other two, the entire universe would collapse.  And so the places where the worlds bubble together and blend aren’t really defects.  They are more like stitches, holding the entire structure of reality together.  The bubbles that encircle holy places are simply some of the largest and most obvious of those threads.  There are many, many more...”

“Wait a minute,” Jobey interrupted.  “Cassie, if all Holy Ground is just a little bubble of a different kind of time…how come it’s possible to create new ones?  People build new places of worship every day.    Why, Mac was telling me just last week how, during World War II, all it took was a chaplain’s blessing to turn a tent into Holy Ground every Immortal would recognize and respect, even if the tent might go back to just being the company mess the moment the services were over.   Are you seriously telling me that those chaplains were creating a…a new bubble of Kairos?  Seriously?” 

“Aionos, most likely,” Cassie corrected.  “Christians tend to have a bias towards pockets of Aionos for their holy places, just as the older European pagan traditions tended to prefer Kairos.  But yes, Jobey.  That’s exactly what they were doing.  And it really isn’t such a stretch.”  She shrugged her petite shoulders daintily.  “*Many* things human beings do end up pulling new pockets of Kairos and Aionos into our world.  Music, poetry, sculpture, dance—really, just about everything our species has ever called an art will do the trick.  Haven’t you ever noticed how a particularly involving movie or an especially stunning painting can actually stop time for its viewers?   Indeed, one can *define* art as the creation of something that somehow transcends time. The greater the art, the more it pulls its audience out of Kronos and into someplace else--and the closer the three realms become tied together as a result.   It’s even more true for all those works of arts our culture has deemed to be spiritual in nature—arts like religious rituals, and meditation, and prayer.  So, it really isn’t any surprise that places where people intentionally decide to experience timelessness become Holy, Jobey.  They can, and do.  And the fact that they can and have has more than once been our entire universe’s salvation…”

Cassie trailed off, radiance momentarily dimmed by something Milly couldn’t understand.  After a moment, though, she resumed her happy smile.  “But the thing about this kind of bubble, the ones that human beings create, is this,” she continued brightly.  “*Because* human beings make them, they tend to be firmly rooted them into one particular place and time, their creator’s location within Kronos at the moment they created them.  This gives this kind of bubble an incredible stability.  There are other types of bubbles, too.  Places where the fabric of Kronos simply wore thin on its own, and something…new…simmered through.  Now, some of those bubbles stay in one place; they become the world’s greatest sacred places of all, the ones that were, are, and always shall be Holy, whether mankind ever worships there or not.  Others are smaller, and break free to wander the fabric of Kronos without restriction.  They are carried along by the river of clock-time in its Tide but are never quite affected by it.”  She nodded at Methos and Duncan.  “Every Immortal on earth today is an example of such a bubble.  And…”  She spread her hands, quirking her lips apologetically.  “So am I.”

Methos spoke up dryly.  “You have proof of this, I suppose?”

“Not proof, no,” Cassie answered at once.  “How can one ever hope to prove something that happens beyond this world why we are still caught within it?  But I certainly have lots of compelling anecdotal evidence.  Don’t look so skeptical, Johnboy. I *know* you’ve already thought of most of this for yourself.  The most obvious proof is in the way Immortals like yourself fail to age, of course.  But there’s also the way all three of us were born…”

Besides her, Milly felt Duncan stiffen.  She looked across the room at Methos, who had also gotten suspiciously quiet—although to Milly’s eye, he looked more pensive than upset.  Milly would have bet cash that whatever Cassie was going to say next wasn’t going to come as a surprise to him.  But Duncan just as clearly didn’t know what was coming next.  He reached out blindly to take Milly’s hand and leaned towards the seer, eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears.  “You—you know how I was born, Cassiopeia?”

“Yes, Duncan, I do.  You *weren’t*.

Duncan dropped down on the bench next to Milly, clearly trying to hide the depth of his emotions.  Milly squeezed his hand tighter, silently willing her strength into his.  But she didn’t look his way—she couldn’t.  Cassie’s eyes, always luminous, had begun glimmering in an entirely inhuman way--it was a bit like watching light dance over the surface of a rippling pond.   Milly gulped, and looked closer.  The corneas of Cassie’s grey eyes had fractured, somehow, become a thousand tiny lenses looking in every direction at once.  They caught the light and trapped it, as a pile of broken glass must do.  And meanwhile the grey color of her irises beneath intensified, shown through the cornea as brilliantly as a faceted moonstone under a jeweler’s lamp.

Milly felt a chill, though she told herself firmly not to be so silly.  In the world she now found herself living in, the world she had freely chosen, a woman whose eyes could look in a thousand directions at once really shouldn’t be so surprising.  But it startled her anyway, as did the strange timber that accompanied Cassie’s next words.  “You are not man born of woman, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.  Nor can you claim Shakespeare’s great cheat and say you were ripped from your mother’s womb before your time.  There *was* no mother, no womb that you were nurtured in.  You simply appeared, an infant, lying alone on the cold earth.  One moment you were not there.  And the next, you were, with the entire tide of Kronos reforming itself around the fact of your existence.”  Cassie turned her weird gaze on Methos.  “And so, in a different time, a different place, was it with you, Abadane’s Child.”

Methos went white.  Milly saw Joe reach out to wrap his hands around his husband’s, offering his love and support nearly on automatic, although he, too, looked badly shaken.  Milly looked back at Cassiopeia just in time to see the unearthly radiance fade from her eyes, leaving just a tiny, middle-aged woman in her place.  She shrugged her shoulders.  “And so,” she concluded wryly, “was it with *me*.”

Duncan didn’t seem to know where to look.  His head turned back and forth between Cassiopeia and Methos as if he was watching a ping-pong match.  “Abadane’s Child?”

“Me, MacLeod,” Methos answered.  He sounded very, very tired and very old.  “It’s my name.  Or the first thing I was ever called by, anyway.  The People weren’t entirely trusting of the strange, pale-eyed infant their chief wise woman found by the river; I was denied a proper name of my own until I came of age.  But they had to call me something, so ‘Abadane’s Child’ it was.  Abadane was my mother.”  He glanced sideways at Duncan, saw Duncan’s open mouth, and rolled his eyes.  “For god’s sake, Highlander, I did have a mother, you know.  I wasn’t raised by wolves.”

Duncan closed his mouth.  His expression softened.  “Well, you have given me cause to wonder about it once or twice over the years,” he said affectionately.  Methos gave a bark of startled laughter.  Duncan frowned.  “I just…you never talk about your childhood, Methos.  I thought you’d forgotten it.”

Methos shrugged tightly, painfully.  “More than five thousand years of tragic memories, MacLeod,” he said dismissively.  “Who wants to go dragging up the earliest?”  He turned his attention back to Cassiopeia.   “Cassie.  This…strangeness…of our respective births.  It’s not the first time you’ve mentioned it to me.”  (*Hah!* thought Milly.  *I knew he already knew!*)  “And,” Methos continued archly, “As you said, I’d already figured out that Meritoles’ ‘time bubble’ theory might explain a little about how Immortals are born…”

“He certainly did,” Jobey interrupted.  “But I have to say that it all sounds just as odd to me now as it back did in your office, Methos.  Okay, so an Immortal’s body comes into this world surrounded by a bubble of…of a different type of time.  That doesn’t explain why Pre-Immortals age the way we normal-clock-time-types do until their first deaths, or why their minds continue to age after that.  And you….you’re not even *that* much of an Immortal, Cassie.  Uh, I hate to point this out, but…”

Cassie laughed merrily.  “How gentlemanly of your to try to avoid calling attention to my wrinkles, Joe!” she said.  “But you’re right, of course.  My body is as mortal as yours is, just as bound to Kronos.  But my consciousness? My mind? *That* is, and always has been, wrapped in a heavy bubble of Kairos.  It’s how I’m able to remember the future.  And it’s why I’m as strange as I am.”  She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand.  “Immortals like Duncan and Methos are my exact opposite.  The extra bubble of Kairos they came into the world with wraps around their bodies, not their minds.”

“But how did they manage to grow up, then?”

“Because when their bubbles first broke free, they were surrounded by still *another* bubble.  A bubble of Kronos. Try to imagine pushing a marble through a sheet of stretched-out bubble gum, Joe.  The gum is able to heal itself after the marble has passed through, to stretch and stick itself back together.  But a small amount stays stuck to the marble, wrapped around it like a blanket.  That extra layer of Kronos is why Pre-Immortals sound so ‘quiet’ to other Immortals—it covers the music of their Presence, muffles it as effectively as a blanket wrapped around a bell.  And that first layer is powerful.  So powerful that it’s enough to make a Pre-Immortal’s body grow and change just as a mortal’s would.   It’s even powerful enough that if a Pre-Immortal ages and dies normally, so that the only thing causing his death is time itself…he will never know what he could have been.”  Cassie frowned suddenly.  “Only one thing can shatter that outer bubble, set the Pre-Immortal’s body free from time.  And it’s the same thing that can pop *any* kind of bubble, even the ones that surround Holy Ground.  A violent death…”

And the strange things was… this all made sense to Milly.  She could feel, suddenly,  what it had been like to be Duncan…to come into the world with his body’s natural Immortality cloaked in a cushion of normal time, so strong and all-encompassing that even he’d thought that was all there was.  Until one day—pop—the bubble was pierced by the same blade that took his life, and his true nature was revealed.  It felt real to Milly.  It felt right. 

Duncan, however, seemed highly displeased.  “So that’s all we are then,” he said gruffly.  “Some kind of…mistake.  Parts broken off from a different world that accidently ended up in this one.”

“Oh, no.”  For the first time, Cassie looked genuinely horrified.  “No, Duncan.  You’re *not* a mistake.  Yes, the first Immortal to ever walk the face of the earth was unexpected, something new.  But all three worlds have evolved to need you since—the universe would have collapsed without you many a time.  Simply by being, you help to keep the three realms of time connected.  And in *this* world, the world of Kronos, you have come to do so much more than that.”

“Yes,” Duncan agreed.  “We kill each other, and eventually we die.  That’s all.  That’s it.  There’s no greater purpose at all.”

“No, Duncan MacLeod.”  And that odd fractured luminesce was back in Cassie’s eye, making her pale face glow.  “You are wrong.  Don’t you know?  Can’t you see?  You are the safeguard for all the things that might be lost, were the Tide of Kronos allowed to simply toll along, unchecked.  _*You are the guardians of memory_ *.”  

Methos made a soft “Oh” sound in his corner.  Duncan just looked confused.   Cassie sagged back into her bench, radiance vanishing as she pressed her hands into her ribcage painfully.  “Johnboy understands,” she said.  “Explain it to the others will you, Johnboy?  I need to give my poor ribs a break from all this talking.”

Methos shot her a worried glance, but did as she asked.  “It’s just something I used to think about in the middle of the night, when I used to wonder why I am the way I am,” he said haltingly.  “If there ever *was* a reason, which is something I gave up truly believing in millennia ago.  Still.  I kept on wondering, anyway.  And the best thing I could come up with was—that Immortals were supposed to act as a kind of fail-safe for the education of mankind.   An archive of sorts.  Where all the advancements of our species could at least be remembered, even if it was beyond our power to recreate them.”  Duncan simply stared at him. Methos shrugged self-consciously.  “Mortal knowledge is so *fragile*, you see.  Geniuses die, civilizations perish, libraries burn.  Brilliant ideas can be known everywhere one century and completely forgotten the next.  But what an Immortal knows can last forever.”

“Can it?” Duncan said blankly.

“You know it can, MacLeod,” Methos said.  “And trust me, it’s vitally important that it does.  There were many times, especially during my first few millennia, when I was able to help an entire village or a tribe survive simply because I remembered things they no longer did. Things I’d learned long before, or that had been learned by someone whose head I’d taken.  Medicines, mostly.  One kind of useful plant would die out, and I’d remember an alternative.  Or I’d still know how to makes arrowheads out of bone when flint could no longer be found, or how to effectively hunt for food when all the domesticated livestock were suddenly wiped out by disease.  Sometimes it’s necessary to take a step back, in order to go forward.”

“Exactly,” Cassie said.  She still looked like she was in pain, but she nodded approvingly.  “The saddest, most dangerous part of living within the world of Kronos is that time keeps marching forward—things get lost, left behind.  And so keeping information safe for the future is a vital part of what *all* human beings do, Highlander.  Back before the advent of modern information technology, mortals used to do it most commonly by reproducing sexually and then teaching their children orally what they knew—an imperfect process, as I’m sure you all know.   Immortals have always done it differently.  All that they are--everything they ever learned or thought or done--is passed on directly to the next Immortal through the Quickening.” She nodded at Duncan.  “It’s a much more efficient process, or at least it can be.  When all goes well, much less information is lost or altered along the way.  And when you look at it that way, even the brutality of your Game finally makes a kind of sense.  Of course a competition would eventually spring up over who would take whose knowledge—and believe me, cruel as that competition is, the world is very lucky that it’s there.  It’s not good for all that information, all those vital experiences and memories, to go to an Immortal too weak to absorb them.  No, they have to go to an Immortal that is strong, one who can both take them in their entirety and carry them into the future for a very long time.  And that’s why Immortals are constantly fighting duels, to determine which one is truly stronger.  It’s pure instinct, coded into the Kairos at very center of your being.” Cassie smiled mischievously.  “Which is also why so few Immortals are able to turn down a Challenge, when one is offered.  The urge to fight and win, and then eventually to surrender and die is inescapable; it’s as strong as the urge to have sex is to mortal humans.  Because it *is* sex, for you.  The way that what you are and what you’ve learned lives on into the future.  It takes a very extraordinary person, either mortal or Immortal, to override that basic programming for long.”

Milly felt her cheeks heat.  She thought she saw hints of similar embarrassment on both Methos and Duncan’s faces.  But then Duncan spoke up, looking very puzzled.  “But that’s not how it works at all,” he said.  “When I take a head, I don’t suddenly know everything my Challenger did.  I get some things, true, especially before the Quickening settles completely.  I often see tiny pieces of memory I know aren’t mine.  But that’s all they are…pieces.  Otherwise, I’d be able to impersonate handwriting as easily as Kalas did.  Or make Kronos’s virus.”  He stopped, because Methos was staring at him incredulously, mouth open.  “What?”  Methos just shook his head.  After a moment, Duncan’s mouth dropped open, too.  “Oh my god.  You aren’t seriously going to tell me that you *do*?  Everything?”

“Why the hell did you think I stopped taking heads?”  Methos demanded.  “Because I got sick of taking on the memories of every goddamn sadistic Immortal bastard who came my way, that’s why!  Believe me, I’ve committed enough sins of my own not to need to add the atrocities of others to my nightmares.  There’s a *reason* Immortals always scream when they absorb a Quickening, MacLeod.”   He stared at the Highlander, clearly appalled as the true horror of the situation rolled over him.  “You mean you *don’t*?  I know Immortals almost never talk about it—it’s taboo for us to discuss the matter at all, even with our Teachers.  But you don’t?  You really, really, don’t?”  The old Immortal paled visibly.  “My god, MacLeod.  You took Haresh Clay.  Grayson. Sean Burns.  *Kronos*.   Do you have any idea what kind of knowledge has been lost?”

“I—“ For a second, Duncan looked deeply ashamed.  Then a dark glare of anger flared in his eyes.  “Wait a minute,” he said savagely.  “You’re an old fraud, Methos.  If you really got your Challengers’ every memory, you’d have known all along who was behind this damned new Bloody Hunt!  All you’d have needed to do was look at the memories of Primrose’s lover when you killed her, and you’d have figured it all out!”

Methos looked as though he’d been slapped.  Then he dropped his head, looking even more ashamed of himself than Duncan had a moment before, and murmured something into his chest.  Everyone in the room strained to hear him.  “…more.”

Duncan made a growling sound, low in his throat.  “What was that?” he demanded, taking a threatening step forward. 

But Joe had had enough.  Before Milly quite had time to realize what was happening, the old mortal had stood and placed his body in between the two Immortals.  The flash of anger in Joe’s own eyes was strong enough that Milly might have believed serious violence was about to erupt—if Joe’s voice hadn’t also been so unbelievably steady and calm.  “Easy, Mac,” he said, and Milly suddenly wondered just how many times Joe had done this over the years, how many times he’d had to defend one or the other of the two alpha male Immortals with his own mortal body in order to keep them from coming to blows.  “You’re letting your anger get the better of you,” Joe said evenly.  “Take a breath and go stand at the other end of the room until you cool down.  Methos *will* tell you the whole story, I guarantee it.  But looming over him like that isn’t going to help him to tell it any faster.” 

Duncan’s mouth worked helplessly for a moment.  But he gave a curt nod and went to stand in the corner with his back turned, much the way Methos had earlier.  Joe sat down next to his husband.  “All right, love.  Take your time.  But do explain to Duncan what you meant.”  He paused, a thoughtful look on his face.  “I think it might be really, really important.”

“I said, ‘I don’t get them anymore’,” Methos answered heatedly.  “I don’t absorb memories any longer.  I haven’t for more than four decades, now, though I only realized it about twenty-five years ago.  And why would I?   I mean, I lost *my* memory for months after I killed Kristin—why would I worry when I realized I had none of hers?  Then…when I killed Silas…everything was so….so…” 

He didn’t finish this, but apparently he didn’t need to.  Joe simply nodded understandingly, and Duncan—who had turned his head back to regard the little group over his shoulder—got such a look of mingled embarrassment and anguished yearning that Milly longed to take him in her arms.  But Methos was still talking, gesturing helplessly with his hands.  “Double Quickenings aren’t exactly common, you know,” he said. “The Watchers have never recorded even a single other instance.  Of course, thank to Joe’s quick thinking, it’s not like they recorded that one in New Camelot either, so maybe it happens far more often than we think.  Still, it’s hardly a well-studied phenomena.  And so it just made sense to me that Silas’s memories would not have settled into mine in quite the same way I was used to.”  Methos laughed, a fragile, bitter sound.  “And I *wanted* Silas’s memories, Mac.  He was my brother.  I went looking for them, meditated endlessly, even spent two weeks walking around his farm hoping to trigger them by looking at familiar things the same way you would trigger the memories of a mortal amnesiac.  Sometimes I’d feel like Silas was walking next to me, trying to reach out to me somehow.  But not one solitary memory did I experience as if I was seeing it through his eyes.  And I grieved…”

Joe breathed something; Milly thought it was “Oh, Methos,” but she couldn’t be sure.  Even Duncan’s expression had softened, as he nodded slightly in pained sympathy.  Methos took a deep breath.  “The next head I took belonged to Morgan Walker, in ’98,” he said.  “Looking back on it, I should have realized that something was odd then.  I won that fight hands down, should have gotten everything he had to give.  But…well, Walker was a psychopath.  And it’s not uncommon for the true crazies to hold some part of themselves back, even once they know they’ve lost.  So it wasn’t until my next Challenge—when I killed the first Token Bearer, some ten years later--that I finally had any reason to suspect that something was wrong with *me*.  And even then, it wasn’t until after we’d left Las Cruces that I finally knew for sure. I *tried* not to fight any more Challenges after that—Joe will tell you, if you don’t believe me.  But those damn Token Bearers kept forcing my hand. ” He looked down at his hands.  “When I take an Immortal’s head now, I get his energy and his strength, but not his memory.  And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising.  I am very old, and I’ve taken more Quickenings than anyone in history.  It seems logical that there would be some natural limit to the amount of memory any one being can take on, after all.  Maybe I’ve filled up all the sectors on my metaphorical hard drive.  Or maybe I’m finally experiencing the first stages of Immortal senility; I honestly wouldn’t be surprised. Or maybe…”

“Or maybe,” Cassiopeia said quietly, “you just shared…and still retain…some of the Quickening of one Duncan MacLeod.”

Dead silence.  Four people turned to stare at the mortal seer.  “Silas’s memories aren’t lost, Methos,” Cassie continued softly.   “They are still with you, permanently imprinted upon your own Quickening.  As are all the others that you’ve taken since.  But it’s going to take some extraordinary circumstances for you to be able to access them.  Because your Quickening was altered, re-patterned completely when you surrendered your energy to Duncan and he gave you his in exchange.  And Duncan is…quite unique.”  She leaned forward, placing her little pointed chin on her hand, and for a moment Milly suddenly thought she could see the teenage girl her fathers had first met.   “You aren’t an ordinary Immortal, Duncan.  You don’t exist simply to gather information and pass it on to the next Immortal, like neurons passing an impulse down a nerve.  You are…” She paused for thought.  “Well, the best thing I can come up with is a T-cell.  A part of humanity’s immune system.  Identifying threats to the body as a whole, and destroying them wherever you can…”

“But—“

Duncan didn’t get out another word.  He just closed his mouth and wobbled slightly.  But Cassie hadn’t finished.  “Mortals and Immortals were always meant to work together, you see,” she said.  “You’re all human, performing essentially the same role—keeping the three realms of time bound safely together.  Immortals are supposed to safeguard that work by safeguarding mortal knowledge.  You’re meant to work hand and glove with mortals, live with them harmoniously, blend in with them and watch and listen and absorb all the new things they learn.  To re-teach them old things, too, as Methos confirmed.  But Joe had it right, when he was talking to Milly, a few months ago.”  She nodded at the mortal musician.  “It’s far too easy, especially for older Immortals, to lose sight of their role.  To mutate into beings that don’t care about knowledge or humanity at all and will kill mortals for expedience, or in very severe cases, for sport.  Now, once upon a time, that wasn’t so serious.  Even the Horseman in their heyday never managed to kill more than a few thousand people at a time, and horrific as it was, there were always at least a few survivors left to remember and live on.  The strength of the human race as a whole was never threatened.  But now…”

“Now,” Methos said, voice rough, “all it takes is one mad Immortal with an atom bomb and a burning curiosity to experience nuclear winter to destroy us all.  Or—“ his eyes flickered sideways to Duncan.  “Or a super virus.”

“Yes,” Cassie agreed.  “Of course, there are *mortal* mutants too, people insanely dedicated to destruction rather than growth, like our dear friend Primrose upstairs.  And sometimes Immortals are called upon to deal with them.  But right now, we’re talking about the Immortal variety.  Which is where Duncan MacLeod comes in.”  She smiled kindly at the Highlander.  “What’s the one question you always ask yourself, Duncan, each and every time you decide to face another Immortal in combat?  Even if the Immortal in question has never done a single thing to you personally?”

“Is he killing mortals,” Duncan answered.  His voice sounded very dull.

“Yes,” Cassie agreed.  “That’s your true line in the sand, Duncan.  The one thing you can’t allow to slide, because everything you are tells you that you can’t.  You have to weed out the Immortals that don’t care about mortality, because if they kill too many, they might destroy the world.  And so you do, just the way a T-cell attacks and absorbs a virus.  But what’s really interesting is the reason *why* you can do this. ”  Cassie gestured at his body, roughly tracing his form in the air.  “Your Quickening is different from other Immortals’, Duncan.  It…well, for lack of a better explanation, it *milks* other Immortals of their power…absorbing their energy with incredible efficiency, allowing almost nothing to disperse.  At the same time, it also has a…well.  Let’s call it a defense system.  An extra layer of shielding, one that will not allow other Immortal’s memories through to your mind intact.  It’s not that you don’t have their memories…you do.  And if you ever lost your head to another Immortal, that Immortal would take them on, so you needn’t fear that the information will be lost.  But you yourself will never be able to access it.  It’s like you have an anti-virus program built into your Quickening, one that filters other people’s experiences out before they reach your conscious mind.  And it has to be that way.  If you remembered your Challenger’s lives with the same clarity that Methos used to, you’d never be able to function.” Cassie’s brilliant eyes dimmed slightly.  “As it was, your shields still got overwhelmed once, and the memories of other Immortals began to take you over.  And the results of that were disastrous.  As everyone here but Milly clearly remembers.”

Apparently they all did, if the three grim male faces were anything to go by.  *Drat*, Milly thought.  *Yet another story I will have to convince someone to tell me one day.* But Methos was speaking, looking troubled.    “Cassie,” he said.  “These ‘extraordinary circumstances’ you mentioned.  The ones necessary for me to begin accessing my opponent’s memories again.  I take it you know how to arrange some?”

“Ah,” said the mortal seer mischievously.  “Now that, my friend, would be telling.  But I will say this.”  All hints of teasing dropped away.  “Do not waste a moment trying to arrange them yourself.  When the time is right, the circumstances will appear.  Nothing will force them before they are ready.  But come they most certainly will.  There is a reason, you see…one beyond pure coincidence and chance…why for hundreds of years the followers of Kahvin have called you “Librarian”, Librarian.  What is a library, after all, but a place where knowledge is stored? And what is a librarian, if not the person who protects and organizes that knowledge so it is never lost?  Librarian you are, Methos, as librarian you were always meant to be.  And of *so* much more than words!” 

Methos looked startled.  Cassie turned her eyes on Duncan, and there was so much light there now that Milly had to look away.  It was blinding.  “Just as you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, have never ceased to be known as ‘The Highlander’.  No, not even today, centuries after you purged the last trace of brogue from your speech and ceased to wear the kilt for anything save fancy dress.  Because what is a highlander, after all?  Not just a man born in the Highlands of Scotland.  In its oldest meaning, a highlander is simply “One who comes from high lands”--as you do.  The moral high ground, the place where one can see right and wrong and act accordingly.  As you do.  As you always will.”    

And suddenly Cassie was crying, tears running down her cheeks, and she was laughing too, with both joy and pain.  “Oh, my beloveds, do you not *see*?  All the confusion, all the anger, all the hurt and yes, all the love and attraction between you as well…*it all has its root in this*.   The reason why you could never bring yourselves to see the world the same way is because you literally _could never see the world in the same way_.  You can’t.  You are not built to perform the same functions.  Duncan was born to *protect*--to fight and win and yes, even to risk his own life for the greater good, over and over again.  Whereas Methos was born to *preserve*--to keep all information safe, without favor or censorship, as a good librarian must.  Complimentary functions, on the surface.  Neither of you could function nearly as well without the other, after all.  But in practice?”  Cassie’s tears seemed to flow twice as fast.  “Oh.  My.  Gods.  The *pain* of it!  The conflict!  The heartbreak and loss when one of your other Immortal beloveds came between you.  The thousands upon thousands of lonely nights, wondering which of you was the more insane.  My darlings, if my heart was not already broken and remade a thousand times with each and every breath, it would have broken forever on the day you two first met.  Just from knowing what lay ahead.”  She dashed the tears carelessly from her eyes, and Milly was astonished to see that her face had become as red and tear-stained as a child’s.  Cassie’s voice dropped to an awed whisper.  “But you held on,” she said.  “You held on, and found a way to keep on loving each other in spite of the pain.  And now? Now, the whole tide of the world is going to be changed by the thing you made together.  Something _new…”_

There was a very loud noise in the distance.  The single lightbulb above them blinked momentarily, then steadied, though it began to slowly swing, making their shadows dance eerily across the wall.   All the non-omniscient members of the group jumped, and began looking at each other anxiously.  Cassie, however, merely looked resigned.  “And I am out of time,” she said sadly.  “Joe?  What you are thinking right now—you’re right.  Milly?  Stay strong, my beautiful one.  There are some dark moments ahead, but I promise you…there will be a happy ending at the end of this.  Hang onto that.”     

There was another loud booming sound, closer now, disturbingly similar to the explosion-sound-effects Milly had hear in a thousand b-rated movies.  The light went out.  And stayed out. 

It could have been considerably more frightening than it was.  Duncan, bless him, somehow found his way to Milly in the dark.  She felt his hands close down on her shoulders and his love wrap around her like a cloak, and her incipient panic calmed at once.  “Quiet, everyone,” he said.  “I thought I heard…”  He chopped off abruptly.  Milly frowned, straining her ears to listen, but she could hear nothing but the breathing of her fellow cellmates.  Then, frowning, she heard something else.  A subtle hissing, like air leaking out of a punctured bicycle tire…

Duncan muttered an oath she didn’t understand—Gaelic again?--and abandoned her shoulders.  A few moments later she felt him pressing something soft into her hands, something she recognized—his shirt.  “Cover your nose and mouth,” he said, then spoke more loudly.  “Methos.  See to it that Joe and Cassie both have something over their airways.  Then come help me.”

“Already done, Highlander.”  Alex’s voice was astonishingly calm, if oddly muffled—he must have covered his own face, as well.  “Can you tell where it’s coming from?  I would have sworn that vault door was air-tight.”

“It is.” And now Duncan’s voice was muffled, too.  “There must be some kind of ventilation holes in the walls I didn’t see.  Which is good…”

“Because if they are small enough not to be seen, they are small enough for us to block,” Methos finished for him.  “The most likely location is the seam between the walls and the floor or between the floor and the ceiling.  I’ll search the floor.”

“Good.  I’ll take the ceiling.  Milly? Cassie? Joe?  Please stay where you are.  This will go easier if we aren’t all tripping over each other in the dark.”

Duncan’s warmth moved away.  Milly heard footsteps and rustling cloth, not that she much understood the meaning of either.  She waited until the two Immortal warriors had been quiet for a while.  Then she ventured, “What’s going on?”

Joe’s voice was muted and oddly low, like he was sitting on the floor.  But he, too, sounded quite calm.  “They’re pumping some kind of gas into the room, honey,” he said.  “Methos and Duncan are trying to find out where it is coming from so they can block it, or at least slow it down.  Methos?”  His voice raised slightly.  “Don’t waste time searching the ceiling. I took my shoes off.  My feet are telling me that it’s blowing up from the floor.”

“Can you tell which wall?”

“All of them, except for the one with the door.  Better hurry.  I can smell it clearly, now.  Even through my shirt.”

And now Milly could smell it too, even through the scent of Duncan’s deodorant and cologne.    “Gas?” she squeaked through the cloth.  “As in, more Tritaxmatazine?”  Her heart started beating faster.  “Or something worse?”

“The former, Milly.”  Cassie said, and her voice wasn’t muffled in the slightest.  Hadn’t she covered her mouth, too?  “Stay brave,” said the seer gently.  “All will be well, I promise.”

And before Milly could even begin to panic—or not panic, she wasn’t sure which instinct would win—she was asleep. 


	12. The door

_Rumblerumblerumblerumble.  Groan. Rumblerumble._

He was in some kind of vehicle, again.  Smaller, this time, though how he knew that for certain, Methos couldn’t tell.  Unlike the truck that had taken them to New Camelot, this latest transport was completely dark, without so much as a crack in the ceiling or walls to let in light.  The darkness pressed into Methos’s eyeballs, almost tactile, almost *furry*--with a shiver, he remembered the handful of times he’d woken up from an unexpected death inside a grave or a tomb, and had to work hard to keep his breathing under control.  No.  Irritating as it was to find himself once again denied of light, this was not a grave; not only did his inner ear clearly tell Methos he was in motion, but he could also hear the constant drone of the vehicle’s engine, and feel the rough texture of automotive carpeting under his hands.  Hmmm…it seemed that whoever had taken him prisoner *this* time had been so good as to leave both his hands and his feet unbound.  Methos pushed himself up with a groan—it would be better in moments, but even Immortal muscles disliked being stretched out unconscious on a hard surface for long—and set about exploring.

The darkness was small.  There was enough room for Methos to—almost—stretch out to his full length along the floor, but not quite enough for him to stand up in.  He was in the back of something a little smaller than your average ambulance, then.  Perhaps an armored car; that would explain the utter darkness.  Still, Methos couldn’t find it in his heart to curse the moving prison’s small dimensions, because the second he’d sat up he felt a very familiar warmth against his arm.  Joe.  Ah, thank god. Joe.  Sleeping, yes, but his breathing was even, and his pulse was strong.  After thoroughly feeling the prison’s walls and ascertaining that nope, there really was no convenient door handle or other obvious means of escape, Methos arranged himself comfortably on the floor and pulled Joe’s head into his lap.  Skillfully and gently, he started massaging acupressure points in the mortal’s neck and scalp while he waited for Joe’s body to clear the Tritaxmatazine.  His husband wouldn’t wake up with a headache this time, not if Methos could help it. 

After a time—immeasurable, really, but Methos thought it was minutes rather than hours-- Joe did.  “Methos?”

“Yes, Joe.  Easy, now.  Don’t try to sit up until the dizziness subsides,” Methos cautioned.  Joe, who had been about to struggle up into a sit, nodded and relaxed, a small groan escaping his throat.  Methos redoubled his massage.  “How do you feel?”

“Still a little dizzy,” Joe admitted.  “And thirsty.  But at least my head doesn’t ache.  Thanks to you?”  Methos mumbled an affirmative.  Joe sighed.  “Where are we?”

“No idea.  We’re in the back of some kind of vehicle, it’s too dark for me to know just what.  I don’t know how long we were unconscious, either.  All I know is that we’re stuck—there’s no obvious way out.” 

“Sprout?”

“She’s not here, Joe.  Neither is Cassie, or Mac.”  He let his head slump.  “Looks like whoever has kidnapped us this time decided it would be best to break us up.  I’m just glad they allowed the two of us to stay together.”

Joe reached up, unerringly finding and caressing Methos’s face in the dark.  “Me too,” he said softly.  Then he relaxed again, submitting to more of Methos’s gentle massage.  “So.  Kidnapped again, huh.  Seems to be becoming a definite pattern with us, doesn’t it.  Who do you think’s got us now?”

*Ah, there’s the Joe Dawson I married,* Methos thought with a hidden grin.  *Unflappable, even under circumstance like these.  Or have the lives we’ve led really been so exceptional that being abducted twice in one day is just par for the course?*  “Don’t know,” he said aloud.  “I don’t feel any Presence, so whoever is driving this little luxury liner must be mortal.  It *could* still be Primrose and company, of course.  The good Doctor Bard might have decided it was easier to knock us all out before transporting us to the final battlefield, given Mac’s propensity for last-minute heroics.  But she said she was going to give us until morning, and we couldn’t have been in the armory for more than an hour or two.  Besides, that explanation doesn’t cover the explosions we heard right before the lights went out.  So, my best guess is that we’ve been ‘rescued’ by the other team.  The Red Token Bearers.  The ones who want *me* to be the One.” Methos dipped his head, suddenly gloomy.  “Be interesting to see what kind of blackmail they come up with to force me into taking Mac’s head.”

Drat.  So much for Methos’s relaxing massage--Joe’s neck cords instantly tightened into guitar strings.  Well, Methos really should have known that would be Joe’s reaction before he spoke.  But after a moment Joe’s muscles softened.  “It doesn’t matter what they come up with,” he said.  “You and Mac settled that long before this whole party started.   Neither of you is ever going to Challenge the other, ever again.”

“Are you sure about that, Joe?” 

“Hell yes, I am.”  Joe pulled himself out of Methos’s lap, sat up at his side.  Methos regretted the loss, but thought it was understandable.  “Are you seriously telling me that you aren’t?”

It was a very pointed question.  Methos swallowed hard, and attempted to answer his husband with all the truth that he deserved.  “I don’t know,” he said softly.  “It’s like I said back in the armory, Joe. You saw Mac’s reaction to learning that Primrose had Amanda.  And of course she—and most likely, whoever is holding us now, too—doesn’t *just* have Amanda.  They also have Milly and *you*.  I don’t honestly know what I’d do, if someone held a gun to both your heads and told me I had to choose between fighting Mac and watching you die.”  Methos’s hands, empty of Joe’s familiar soothing warmth, tightened over his own knees instead. “I don’t know what Mac would do, either.” 

“I—“ Joe was speechless for a moment.  Then his shirt made a soft rustle that made Methos think he was emphatically shaking his head.  “It doesn’t matter.  It’s not going to come to that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it just *can’t*, Methos.  You and Mac fighting each other is as impossible as the earth suddenly deciding to fight the sky.  You may be complete opposites…but the world needs you both.  And you need each other.  Besides.”  Joe’s voice took on a note of humor.  “I heard Cassie promising Milly that there would be a happy ending, right before I passed out.  So.  Somehow or other, it’s all going to work out.”

Methos snorted.  “Yes, well,” he said.  “Our Cassie has an unusual perspective on both ‘happiness’ and ‘endings’, I think.  She once promised me a happy ending, too.  Just before I left her to meet up with Kronos in Seacouver.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly?” 

“Yeah.  Exactly.”  Joe’s hands were again groping for Methos’s face.  He pulled Methos to him, forehead to forehead in the dark.  “It may have been living hell for a time, but at the end of it…I got you,” he whispered.  “And I’ve had you for more than forty years.  So yes, Methos.  Whatever happens after this-- that was a happy ending.  Yes, yes, yes.” And he found Methos’s lips and began kissing him ferociously.

They kissed for what seemed like forever, while the engine noise whirred around them and the wheels rotated underneath, until they were breathless, and all the terror and horror of the last day somehow transformed into sweetness.  Then they kissed some more until sheer fatigue asserted itself and they were forced to take a break.  They subsided, settling down side by side in the dark with their fingers entwined, sharing a silence and a stillness that was even more intimate than the kissing had been.  At least, until something Methos had been wondering about in the back of his mind since he’d first come to suddenly decided to tickle his brain.  “Joe?”

“Yes, Methos?”

“Cassie said something else, right before we all went unconscious.  About how what you were thinking, right at that moment.  She said that you were right.”  He squeezed his beloved’s hand.  “What *were* you thinking?”

“Oh.”  Joe sounded subdued.  “Well, that’s a bit complicated.  I was thinking a whole lot of things, actually.”  He squeezed Methos’s hand back.  “I guess I was mostly thinking about you, taking on all those other Immortal’s memories over the millennia.  I mean, I know we’ve talked about it a few times over the years, but I don’t think ever really thought about it before.  What it meant.  Did you *really* used to get everything, every single thing the Immortals you killed had thought and did?  Really?”

Methos nodded, remembered that Joe couldn’t see, and squeezed Joe’s hand with a slightly different pressure, one that he knew Joe would correctly interpret as assent.  *Strange, how quickly we adapt to new circumstances,* Methos thought.  *I think if our captors had somehow managed to strip of us of hearing as well as vision, we’d still have figured out a way to communicate, just with touch alone.  Then again, that’s what we’ve spent the last fifty years doing, haven’t we, what all really long-term lovers do? Developed our own private language, one only we two really understand?* “I did.”

“How—“ Joe’s voice quavered, and Methos could hear his breathing speed.  “My god, Methos.  How did you stay *sane*?”

“I’m not really sure I did.  Not the first few times, anyway.”  He gave Joe’s hand another squeeze, a tender one, meant to be reassuring.  “My childhood?  The one I’m always so vague about?  Part of the reason I’ve always been so hesitant about talking about it is I wasn’t 100% sure it was really mine.  I thought it might have belonged to one of the first Immortals whose heads I took, instead.  I didn’t know for sure until today.”

“When Cassie mentioned your mother,” Joe said, voice warm with understanding.  “Oh, Methos.”  His hand stroked down Methos’s arm to his wrist, the tactile equivalent of the sympathetic, loving look Methos knew Joe would have given him under any other circumstance.  It warmed him in just the same way.  “Are there other mothers running around in your memories, then?  Ones you know can’t be yours?”

“A few,” Methos agreed.  “I always suspected that the memories I have of being raised by Abadane and her tribe were the true ones.  But part of me remembers growing up in Mesopotamia, too.  And someplace else that was all ancient equatorial jungle, the vines so fast-growing and thick that every day you had to fight to make a new path to the river, and the trees so tall you never saw the sun at all unless you climbed.  That was that particular culture’s main rite of passage for men—you weren’t an adult when you killed your first animal or bedded your first woman, but when you finally grew strong enough to climb the tallest sacred tree, and saw the sun for the very first time.  ‘Being light-touched’, they called it.  If I close my eyes, I can still see how *bright* it all was.  And so, so beautiful…”  He shook his head in wonder.  “So you see, it’s very possible that the Methos you know isn’t really me, Joe.  I could easily be a blend of several different Immortals.  Certainly the first three or four I killed, and all the ones they’d killed, as well.  It took me a long time to be able to discern which memories were really mine and which weren’t.”

“How?”

“Well, that’s a very good question.”  Methos stared up thoughtfully into the dark.  “I was thinking about that, when Cassie was talking about MacLeod.  How his Quickening has a filter built into it, one that doesn’t let other Immortal’s memories through to his conscious mind.  They’re still *there*.   But the connection is blocked, somehow.” 

“You think you developed a filter of your own?”

“Grew it over time, perhaps.  Or maybe the fifth Immortal I killed had one, and I just took it on, the same way I took on the first four’s languages and skills. I think…”  Methos sighed.  “Have you ever been so immersed in a movie or book that, for a moment or two at least, it felt like it was really happening to you?  So that forever afterwards, you could close your eyes and remember what it was like to be Sydney Carton in his tumbril, or Watson seeing the glowing eyes of the Hound upon the moor? But at the same time, you also knew that those experiences weren’t really yours.  Some part of you could always tell that you were never really Luke Skywalker hanging from the scaffold learning Darth Vader was his father.  And it’s not a logical process…it’s not like you have to consciously think it through and say ‘no, I grew up in Seacouver during the 1960’s, not a lot of Jedi Knights about.’  Some part of your brain just *knows*.”

Joe gave him the finger squeeze that was rapidly beginning to represent a nod of understanding.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “So that’s what it’s like for you when you take a head, then?  More like watching a movie of someone else’s life than actually having lived through it?”

“It became that way, yes,” Methos confirmed.  “It certainly felt like I’d lived through it, at first. But eventually I started getting better and better at discerning which situations had actually been experienced by my body.  That little part of the brain that knows?  Mine got better and better at doing its job.  After a few centuries, it even started happening on automatic.  By the time the Quickening was over, I’d be able tell which memories were really mine and which belonged to my Challengers.  But I could still remember them, nonetheless.”  He chuckled humorlessly.  “And it was *useful*, Joe.  You can’t possibly imagine.  We’ve gotten so spoiled in this modern age.   Knowledge is so accessible…nowadays, if you want to know something or to learn a new skill, you just ask your house computer, and she Plexes it and finds a thousand articles and tutorials on the topic. Kids today can’t even imagine going to the work of looking up a word in an old-fashioned paper dictionary.  Can you imagine what it was like before there *were* dictionaries?  Before there was a widely-spread written language at all?  Can you guess what an absolute miracle it was to take a head and suddenly have access to all of that person’s experience?  To know their language, to see where they’d travelled and finally know for sure just what lay beyond the next mountain? To understand their medicinal techniques and how they made their weapons?”

“Pretty sweet, I’d guess.”

“More than that, Joe.  More than that.  Looking back, it really isn’t any wonder that I spent a few lifetimes letting people worship me as a god.”  Methos laughed bitterly.  “I wasn’t, of course…I was just a librarian.  A living, breathing Plex, millennia before the internet or Plex had ever been dreamed of.  With a huge disadvantage Minerva doesn’t have to worry about.  There was no way for me to separate emotions or physical pain from the basic facts.  If I wanted to ‘remember’ what a new kind of sword looked like, I’d also remember what it felt like to use it…and what it felt like to have it used on me, or someone I loved.  If I remembered a special herb an Immortal healer had once discovered would cure a particular illness, I’d also remember all the children she discovered it too late to save. Eventually…” He shuddered.  “There’s a limit to the amount of pain one being can hold, Joe.  Eventually, it all got to be too much.”

“Which is when you stopped taking heads.  Back around 1790.”

“Yes,” Methos agreed.  “And now that I think about it? My timing couldn’t have been better.  The industrial revolution was well under way, Joe.  The world’s upper crust all valued knowledge, and had ways to build libraries beyond anything I had ever dreamed of, even as little as a hundred years before.  If Cassie is right, and if one of the roles Immortality evolved to fulfill was to act as a fail-safe for human knowledge…well.  Humanity didn’t need me to do it for them anymore.”  He smiled in a terrible parody of humor, glad that Joe couldn’t see the expression.  “I’m obsolete, now.  Which is just as well, really.  Plex is much superior to me in many ways. I think it’s for the best that your average school child can look up Socrates without remembering what it felt like to stand by helplessly as he died, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said thoughtfully.  “If every idiot who tried to Plex directions on how to make a bomb also had to remember what it felt like to be a first responder after one went off, we might have a lot less terrorism in the world.  I think there’s still a lot to be said for the way you learned things, Methos.  As whole experiences, rather than as simple facts alone.  But, Methos…” And there was new tinge in Joe’s voice, one that alerted Methos to the fact that his beloved felt the next question was very, very important indeed.  “We’re back to my original question—how did you stay sane?  Okay, I get that after a while you were able to figure out which memories were yours and which weren’t.  But that’s still an awful lot of memory.  My mind can’t even make a start at fathoming just how much.  How did you keep from being overwhelmed?”

Methos thought for a long time before he answered. “I once asked Cassie a similar question,” he said. “When I first began to understand that she really does remember the future as well as the past…and that she remembers everyone’s, not just her own.  She said that her memory worked the same way anybody’s did.  An entire lifetime of memory is never in anyone’s conscious mind at the very same moment, Joe.  Something has to remind you of something in your past for you to think about it in your present, or you have to intentionally bring it up yourself.  And even the clearest, most vivid memory is somehow fundamentally *different* from the here and now.  Cassie said she’d learned how to focus on the present moment in order to keep from getting lost.  I guess I did the same.”  Joe made a distant “mmm-hmmm” noise, like he was thinking about something else.  Methos squeezed his hand.  “Joe?  Where’d you just go?”

“Sorry.  Nowhere,” Joe apologized instantly.  “I guess I was just thinking…” It was Joe’s turn to heave a heavy sigh.  “You know I experience your memories, sometimes.  As if I was living inside your skin when they happened.  And you’re right…over the years I’ve gotten better and better at being able to tell what comes from you and what comes from me.  And I’ve also learned that the best way to find myself again…when I’ve gotten so lost in one that it’s hard to remember I’m really Joe Dawson, not Benjamin Adams or Thutmose or whatever the heck you were calling yourself at the time…the best way to come back is simply to focus on what’s in front of me.  What I can see and hear and smell and taste right then.  I’ve gotten pretty good at that, too.”  Methos could hear Joe’s throat work as he swallowed.  “The thing is, Methos…it’s never a completely painless process.  Even if the memory of yours I’ve witnessed was a happy one.  I always come back…changed.  A little more not-me.”

Methos couldn’t help himself.  He groped around until he found Joe’s other hand, then clasped both of them between his own.  “I know.”

“Yeah.  I know you do.”  He felt Joe nod.  “So that’s what I’d been thinking about, while Cassie was talking.  About how you *don’t* get other Immortal’s memories anymore, because you somehow took on Mac’s filters.  I started thinking about how, for me, that was a damned lucky thing.  Because when your Quickening got so unbalanced after Kristin and came to me…all I got was *you*.  Your energy, your love, your memories.  And thank God that’s the way it worked.  Because if I’d suddenly gotten access to the pasts of everyone whose head you’d ever taken, too…”

“Oh.  My.  God.”  Methos felt his own hands, which he had meant to be reassuring to his beloved, suddenly go slick with the perspiration of absolute horror.  He wanted to pull back—but no.  He could never pull away from Joe.  All he could do was press his hands to Joe’s with even more force.  “Oh my *god*, Joe.  Is that what you were thinking?  When Cassie said you were right?”

“Not quite,” Joe said quietly.  “That was just sort of…the first thought in the chain.  My next thought was really more of a feeling.  Gratitude.  I was suddenly so damn grateful that it had all gone down the way it did.  That you had surrendered to Mac, and that he had refused to take you, and ended up giving you a part of his energy instead.  Even with all the pain it caused—and god, do we both know just what it cost…”

“We certainly do,” Methos agreed, voice gruff. “You can actually be *grateful* for that now, Joe?”

“I truly can,” Joe answered.   “Because I think it was your surrendering to Mac that loosened up your Quickening enough for your memories to come to me in the first place…and that is a gift I wouldn’t trade for anything, Methos, no matter how much it hurts sometimes.  And also because I think it was Mac’s ‘filters’ that saw to it that it was just your memories that came to me.  Which probably kept me from being driven insane.”   Joe chuckled suddenly.  “And then I wondered why I was so convinced that taking on the memories of, say, Kristin, would drive me insane, when more than 5,000 years of assorted trauma and atrocities from you didn’t manage to do the trick…”

“Goodness.  This was a long thought-chain, wasn’t it?”

“Well, it’s taking me much longer to say it than it did to think it. My mind works like that, sometimes.  Zero to one hundred in the fraction of a second,” Joe pointed out humorously.  Then his voice got very, very serious.  “But I did wonder.  And the only answer I could come up with was…I *loved* you, Methos.  I wanted your memories.  I was more than willing to take any and all parts of your life I could share.  And then I started wondering if love was what had made the difference.  Not just why I wasn’t overwhelmed by your memories…but maybe it was the reason why it was even possible for me to receive them in the first place.  And *that* was the moment that Cassie said I was right.  The very moment I had that thought.”

“Love, huh.”  Methos finally let go of Joe’s hands, and reached up carefully in the darkness until he could touch Joe’s face.  “I think you and Cassie are both what they used to--rather foolishly, I might add--call an ‘old-fashioned romantic’, Joe.  Which astonishes me.  Given that you were the one who once told me…and Cassie confirmed…that ‘love alone was never enough.’” 

“It isn’t enough,” Joe answered easily.  “But here’s the thing I’ve learned, over and over again, during all the years since.  Nothing *else* is ever enough without it.”  He sat up then, speaking excitedly.  “I just can’t help but think it’s important, Methos.  That nutso prophecy—it talked about how ‘willingness will open the door—willingness will build that door into a bridge.’  Don’t you get it?  Maybe it was my willingness that let that doorway into your memories open in the first place…and that willingness was caused by my love.  Plus all this talk about the three realms of time?  How they need to be constantly re-stitched together, or the whole universe will fall apart? Maybe the strongest thread connecting them isn’t Immortality, after all.  Maybe it’s love instead.”  Joe started speaking with even more excitement.  “I mean—when you killed Kristin and I first experienced you memories, I’d already known you for more than ten years—but it felt like I’d loved you for lot longer than that.  From the day I was born, maybe.  Hell, it *feels* like I loved you even *before* I was born.  And you’ve told me before that it’s the same way for you…that you were in love with me, and looking for me, long before you ever guessed that a person named Joe Dawson would eventually exist.  So maybe we’ve been in love since before the day you first popped into existence, too.  Which is as good a definition of ‘eternal’ as any I can think of.  And…” He collapsed suddenly.  “Oh, hell, Methos, I don’t know!  I’ve got all these weird thoughts chasing around in my mind.  And they may not be anything more than some strange side effect of the Tritaxmatazine.  The things is—I just can’t seem to make myself buy that ‘the end of time’ really means the ‘end of the world’ like the Token Bearers all seem to think.  After all, isn’t my getting your memories kind of an ‘end of time’, all in itself?  It’s cut me free from the normal progression of time I should have lived through, after all…let me see and touch things that were dust long before my feet ever touched the earth.  Don’t you think that’s important?  Somehow?”

And damn it all.  It *did* seem important.  Feel important, although for the life of him, Methos couldn’t understand why.  “I don’t know, Joe,” he said helplessly.  “I think maybe…”

But he never got to finish that sentence, or even the thought behind it.  Because suddenly, they were in light.

***

Well.  At least this time, they hadn’t bothered to tie her hands and feet.

Milly was grateful for that.  Because the moment she was awake, and realized that she was once again trapped in the back of some kind of moving vehicle, alone in the dark with Duncan…she and Duncan started making love.  Ill-advised, perhaps, given that they could have been interrupted at any time.  And a bit on the messy side too, without any convenient showers or towels at hand to cleanup afterwards.  Still.  When they’d finished, re-dressed as best they could given the utter total darkness—Milly had been pleased to discover that she was still in possession of Duncan’s shirt, so at least her Scottish beloved didn’t have to go topless--Milly found she had no room for regrets.  She curled up securely on the floor of their moving prison, head on Duncan’s chest.  And stayed there, until the vehicle suddenly jerked to a stop and a door opened up by her feet. 

Milly gave a startled yelp, her head flying off Duncan’s chest and crashing into one of the vehicle’s walls.  Duncan was instantly on his own feet, using the inertia of the truck to roll backwards, recoil, and end up in a crouch between Milly and the door.  He stayed there, blocking the entrance with his body, hands raised in a defensive posture Milly now knew well.  “Stay back, Milly,” he said calmly, so calmly that Milly knew he was prepared for anything, was just waiting for whatever threat there was to make itself known, so he could slip into the perfectly clear mind-space of a battle engaged.  He was like a coiled rattlesnake, all lean, tense power, just waiting to spring. 

But the face that peered cautiously around the door a moment alter didn’t belong to Primrose.  It didn’t belong to a White Token Bearer, either.  It belonged to Maria Navarro-Tokalov. 

She looked quite the worse for wear.  Maria’s hair and black clothing were disastrously disheveled, and a fresh three-inch cut under one eye was still dripping blood down her cheek.  Nonetheless, she seemed very, very glad to see them.  “Dr. Alphonso.  Mr. MacLeod,” she said, relief battling with exhaustion in her voice.  “I am so happy to see that you are both unharmed.  Please forgive me for the length of your most recent incarceration.  It was harder to retrieve you from New Camelot than any of us would have guessed.”

“*You* kidnapped us?” Milly squeaked.  “Do you have Jobey and Methos, too?” Maria nodded, looking worn.  Relief swept over Milly sweetly.  “Then…if we’re no longer being held by any of the Token Bearers…nobody has to fight anyone,” she said.  “We’re free to leave.”

But Maria was shaking her head.  “I wish I could let you go, Dr. Alphonso,” she said, regret plain.  “Believe me, that was my original plan.  But I’m afraid some new circumstances have arisen.”  Grimly, she extended her hand to help them step down to the ground outside.  “If you’d come with me, please?”

And--not knowing what else to do—Milly and Duncan did just that.  

***

Their prison turned out to be a perfectly ordinary, plain white delivery van, although the doors had been painstakingly lined with strips of insulation to keep the light out, and the inner handles had been removed.  Outside, however, was a scene of chaos.  There were in a vast, completely unremarkable stretch of countryside, a few scrubby trees interrupting a meadow of equally scrubby plants and grass.  But cars and vehicles were parked everywhere at haphazard, unplanned angles, and several dozen people were milling about, each one with—Milly gulped—a large machine gun strapped to his or her back.  “That’s a lot of guns for a supposedly peaceful faction to be carrying, Dr. Navarro-Tokolav,” Duncan told Maria, disapproval plain.  “What’s going on?”

“You were kept unconscious for almost a full day, Mr. MacLeod,” Maria answered tiredly.  “There has been more than one new development during that time.” She checked her watch, then looked relieved as another van drove into the clearing, this one painted black.  “Good.  Right on time.”

“*What’s* right on time?”  Milly demanded.  But the black van had already come to a stop, with two Watchers stepping forward to throw open its back doors.  And—looking quite owlish and blinking at the light—Jobey and Alex emerged from it.  They Watchers carefully assisted them both from the van’s high back to the ground.

Milly couldn’t stop herself.  It didn’t matter how many Watchers with machine guns were arrayed between her and her and them…she ran to her family, and was instantly swept up into Jobey’s arms.  “Sprout!” he exclaimed joyfully.  “Is Duncan with you? Are both of you all right?” 

Too keyed up for speech, Milly just nodded, hugging him tighter still.  Jobey hugged her back, looking at the scene around them curiously.  “Good,” he said.  “Then maybe you could explain just what the hell is going on?”

“I think there’s been another coup, Jobey,” Methos said quietly, detangling himself from Milly’s embrace.  “Look.”

He nodded at Maria, who was still standing near the van she’d released Duncan and Milly from, several other Watchers crowding around her.  It wasn’t hard to see what Methos meant.  The other Watchers’ body language was almost obsequiously deferential as they asked Maria questions, and listened respectfully to her answers.  Maria couldn’t have been more obviously in charge if she’d been wearing a blinking neon sign.  “Dr. Navarro-Tokalov!” Methos called, voice carrying caustically across the grass.  “It seems that congratulations are in order.  Normally I’d be gratified to see that a former student of mine had risen so far in so short a time.  But…”

“That’s fine.  I’ll deal with it later,” Maria murmured to a Watcher, one who had been holding a small tablet under her nose.  The subordinate Watcher nodded and scurried away.  Maria broke through the little crowd and approached them. Duncan, frowning, followed close behind.   “’And some have greatness thrust upon them,’” Maria quoted with heavy irony.  “As I’m sure you know, given that your own husband once did a very similar thing under not completely dissimilar circumstances.  Yes, Doctor Porter.  I’m afraid that, in the absence of any other qualified candidates, I have temporarily taken over leadership of the Watchers—all of the Watchers.  The Red Token Bearers, The White Token Bearers, and the few remaining none-of-the-aboves.”  She looked at the milling crowd sadly.

“What happened to Primrose, Maria?”

“She’s in a holding cell in Bordeaux.  We have her securely detained.  Don’t worry, Dr. Porter.  You four *are* safe here.  I give you my word.”

“Uh-huh.”  Methos nodded pointedly behind him.  A small semi-circle of Watchers, perhaps seven or eight altogether, had formed there, their faces impassive and their machine guns held attentively in their hands.  They didn’t look aggressive, exactly, but their presence wasn’t comforting, either.  “Then why are we all still prisoners?” he inquired.

“Doctor Navarro-Tokalov!  The anomaly has grown another ten percent!”

“Not now, Researcher Smith.” Maria waved away the young Watcher who had interrupted her.  “As I was telling Dr. Alphonso, there have been some new developments,” she said.  “Forgive me, Doctor Porter.  It wasn’t my wish to bring you here at all.  But….events have forced my hand.  There’s something all of you need to see.”  She nodded at them, raising an arm politely.  “If you’ll all just accompany me…?”

There was a moment of silence as all four members of Milly’s family silently consulted each other with their eyes.  After a moment, though, Duncan gave a nod, and the four of them started walking across the field.  “Wait a minute,” Jobey said suddenly.  “Where’s Cassie?”

“Who, Mr. Dawson?”

“Cassiopeia.  The other prisoner at the New Camelot, the one who was already in the cells.  The lady who gave you those last two numbers for Methos. Didn’t you free her, too?”

Maria stiffened.  “I’m afraid she didn’t make it, Mr. Dawson.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She was not a young woman, and her heart stopped under the influence of the Tritaxmatazine.  It can sometimes do that, in the elderly and frail.  It’s possible that the…injuries…she suffered under Dr. Bard’s direction may have made her more susceptible to the side effects; we won’t know for sure until an autopsy is done.  But whatever the cause, the end result is the same.”  Maria looked down at the patchy grass.  “She was dead long before we made it into the armory to free you.”

“What?”  Joe looked aghast.  “But that’s…that can’t be right.”  He looked at Methos.  “Methos? I mean…my god.  She told us not to worry.  That everything would be all right.  She had to know.  Didn’t she?”

“I think she did know, Joe,” Methos answered softly.  “Knew, and chose to embrace her fate.  That was Cassie’s way, after all.  She never saw any point in bemoaning the inevitable.  Not when she had a role to play.”  He looked bleakly at the meadow around them.  “As do we all.  In fact, I’m almost beginning to believe that what we do next really has been fore-ordained, written from the beginning of time itself.  Look.”  And he nodded at the ground in front of them.

They were approaching a place where the field sloped downward slightly.  More of the ever-present black-clad Watchers were at the bottom of the slope, some with ropes and climbing equipment in their hands.  They were clustered around what, to Milly, appeared to be a perfectly ordinary, if somewhat forbidding, hole in the ground. 

But Methos, Duncan, and Jobey all got very quiet.

“This,” Maria Navarro-Tokalov said softly, “is the place where the Immortal Cassandra lost her head.”  Milly, Duncan, Jobey and Methos all stared at her.  Maria spoke directly to Duncan and Methos, effectively cutting the mortal members out of her audience.  “I was there, Dr. Porter, Mr. MacLeod.  I was one of the circle that brought her here. Then I stood back and watched it happen,” she said bluntly.  “Which is something I will regret to my dying day.  Please believe me when I say that I genuinely thought the stakes were high enough to require it; there was no way I could have intervened to save her without blowing my cover.  At that point, we still didn’t know the location of the Holy Ground spoken of in the Prophecy, and we felt—I felt--that knowledge was worth any price.”

“But now you do know,” Duncan said softly.  “And it’s here, isn’t it.  The Holy Ground spoken of in the prophecy—it’s right here.”  He looked at Methos.  “I was pretty sure it would be here, when I first saw Milly’s solution to the map diagrams.”

“Sure?” Milly said, disbelievingly.  “You…you know this place, then?”

“He does, Pixie,” Methos answered.  “We all do, me most of all.  I’ve known this place—and tried to keep it safe—for more than four thousand years.”  He looked at Maria.  “Dr. Navarro-Tokalov.  There is a problem.  This can’t be the place spoken of in the prophecy—because it isn’t Holy Ground.  Not anymore. The sacred spring that used to be here--it vanished, more than four decades ago.  If you enter the cave below us now, I think you’ll find that’s all it is.  Just a cave.”

“I know,” Maria answered.  “Even if the Spring somehow had survived…this ground could not have remained holy.  Not once the Immortal Cassandra had been murdered above it.  A violent death always profanes even the most sacred of places.”  She looked at the earth.  “Nevertheless, the cave seems to have remained…special.  Enough to have reacted rather…oddly…to an Immortal losing her head right above it.”

“Oddly?”

“Yes, Dr. Porter.”  She sighed.  “You see, none of us had any idea that this was the location spoken of in the prophecy until after Cassandra was already dead.  We saw the cave entrance, but we never bothered to climb down and look inside.  But once we knew…then, we looked.  Which is why I’ve had you all brought here, now.” Maria nodded at a few of the Watchers.  Instantly, four broke off and approached them, a climbing harness in each of their hands.  A fifth approached Maria.  “If you’ll consent to accompany me below, so you can see for yourself?”

There didn’t seem to be any good reason to object.  Milly let two Watchers buckle her into the harness.  And lower her down through the hole into the earth.

***

The inside of the cave was, in its way, almost as overwhelming as New Camelot had been.  Just as large.  Just as unexpected.  But Milly could feel none of New Camelot’s lurking menace as she was gently lowered to the ground.  Instead, she almost felt welcomed.  It didn’t feel like Holy Ground--at least not in the way Milly had felt it near the standing stones on Joe and Methos’s island, nor the way she’d always felt it in church as a child.  But there was definitely *something* there, something that made Milly gentle her breathing and keep her voice soft, something that made her look around herself in reverence.  Milly stared up at the vast arching ceiling, the dozens of stalactites and stalagmites scattered around…and the ruins of more human artifacts too, high stone arches that had clearly been constructed by the hand of man.  These were old, so worn and crumbled that they might almost have been mistaken for a natural part of the cave.  But Maria’s people had brought down lighting—huge, white LEDs on human-height tripods, the same lights used by rescue workers in disaster areas all over the world—and their artificial brilliance made the remnants clear.  “Did this cave used to be a church?” Milly asked, voice hushed.

“It’s been many things, Pixie,” Methos answered, just as softly.  “For a few centuries during the height of the Dark Ages, yes, it was a Christian church.  It was forgotten when the last of its mortal keepers died.  Then, the only two people left who remembered it were Darius and me.”  He nodded toward the north.  “There used to be a sacred spring a few hundred yards in that direction, one whose waters could heal almost any wound.  But it has long since gone away.”  Duncan looked at him oddly.  “What is it, Mac?”

“I—I just didn’t think you knew,” Duncan said softly.  “That the Lady had disappeared.  That means…you must have come back here, sometime.  After you were here with me.”

“Back during the spring of 2009,” Methos answered.  “I brought Joe here on our way home from Japan, when we first discovered his cancer.  I thought The Lady might heal him.  But she…she just wasn’t here.”  Duncan nodded painfully.  Methos cocked his head at him curiously.  “And you?  You must have come back here, as well.”

“In 2004.  After Connor died,” Duncan confirmed.  “I’d hoped…well.  You and Joe both know what kind of shape I was in after that.  I’d hoped the Lady might help me heal again.  But she wasn’t here for me, either.”  Duncan looked around him sadly, a small glimmer of tears in his eye.  “I thought it was my fault, somehow.  That She had found me unworthy.”

“Oh, Mac,” Methos murmured, his face a mask of understanding sympathy.  “No.  Or if it is, then She found both me and Joe to be equally unworthy.  But I really don’t think worthiness comes into it at all.  I think…it was just her time, that’s all.  Perhaps the little bubble of Kairos that had sustained her and kept her safe from the world for all these centuries finally broke free and popped.  I—“  He blinked, face assuming an odd, strained expression.  “We’re about to have company.”

“Immortal company?”  Joe said sharply.  Methos nodded distractedly, his eyes lifting to the patch of light that was the cave entrance just as a new guide rope was tossed down.  A pair of feet appeared, and then a slender form was being lowered to the ground, a couple of the milling Watchers stepping in to stabilize its rope.  Methos stepped in front of Joe protectively, and for a second Duncan started to do the same for Milly.  Then his face broke into an expression of pure, unadulterated joy.  “Amanda?”  he said disbelievingly.  Then, shouted:  “Amanda!”

The Immortal thief hit the ground gracefully, waving off the half a dozen male Watcher volunteers who were instantly crowding around offering to unfasten her harness.  This she accomplished herself, nimble fingers loosening all the various buckles and other fastenings with lightning speed.  Moments later she was sprinting across the cave floor toward them, the dim light and the various scattered pebbles not giving her the slightest problem in spite of her chic high-heeled boots.  “Duncan!” she shouted.  And flung herself into Duncan’s arms.

Amanda looked unquestionably tired, her hair and clothes rumpled, more than one smudge of dirt on her face.  But her beauty shone through all of that, bringing another kind of light to the dark cave.  Her face, turned to one side and pressed into Duncan’s shoulder, was transcendent.  So, to a slightly lesser degree, was Duncan’s.  He held her tenderly, his lips brushing the top of Amanda’s bright head.  “I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured into her hair.

“I thought I’d lost myself,” she said.  “And you, as well.” 

“Me?  You knew they had taken me prisoner, too?”

“No.  But they made me pose for pictures, with a sword against my neck.  Told me they were ‘extra incentive for one of my friends.’  Well, I knew that the only reason anyone would need *that* kind of incentive was if what they wanted from my ‘friend’ was truly terrible.  And since the only friend I have left on this planet left who both loves me enough and is stupidly heroic enough to be moved by such a thing is *you*, you chivalrous idiot, I knew who they had to be talking about.  Then, when they finally set me free, I thought…I thought…”  She swallowed hard, redoubling her embrace.  “But you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“And so are we,” Jobey said quietly.  “Hello, gorgeous.”

Amanda stiffened, then slowly turned in Duncan’s grasp.  “Joel?  Aaron?” she whispered incredulously, which confused Milly completely…until she remembered that Joel and Aaron were Methos’s and Jobey’s most recent set of aliases, ones she’d never had any reason to use.  “Joel!  Aaron!”  Duncan was abandoned.  Both Jobey and Methos were swept into equally heartfelt hugs in turn. 

Methos ruffled Amanda’s short locks affectionately.  “Gone back to the platinum blonde, I see.”

“It was Nick’s favorite,” Amanda admitted a little sheepishly.  “I’ve wanted to go back to it every year when the anniversary rolled around, but I resisted until this one.  This time, I just couldn’t help myself.”  She set him free and turned to Milly.  “But who is this?”  Her jaw dropped.  “Oh, no.  It can’t be.  But….it has to be.  *Milly?*”

“You know me, Amanda?”

“Well, of course I do, darling!” Amanda exclaimed.  “Nick and I kept every picture our friends over there sent us of you on our home refrigerator for years.  I’d know those eyes of yours anywhere.  Come here, ma chère.”  And she held out her arms.

Milly went to them.  Amanda’s skin smelled of sweat and desperation and pain in addition to the lingering traces of her trademark perfume—but even so, for a moment it felt just like being seven years old again.  Milly clung to her, and wondered to herself how it was possible to have missed someone so badly for almost thirty years and never to have acknowledged it.  Amanda whispered in her ears: “You found each other again then, somehow.  You and Methos and Joe.”

“Yes,” Milly whispered back.

“Recently?”

“About nine months ago.”

“Must have been just after I left on my retreat, then.  No wonder I didn’t hear—our dear friends in black there snatched me after I’d only been in Tahiti for a week.  Damn.  I’m sorry I missed your reunion, Milly.  But we’ll make up for all the lost time, now.”  She pulled back, shaking her head softly.  “Still the same eyes,” she said wonderingly.  “But you’re all grown up now.  Aren’t you, ma chère.”

“She is,” Alex said.  He shot Milly a look filled with both love and pride.  “I’m still not quite sure when enough time went by for that to happen, to tell you the truth.  But it did.”

“Yes.  It did,” Duncan echoed.  “Which is a very good thing.” Ever so gently…but firmly, too…he detangled Milly from Amanda’s embrace.  He wrapped a possessive arm around Milly’s waist, looking down at her with great love.  “Otherwise, I’d be in even more trouble with Methos and Joe than I already am.”

The intimacy in the gesture could not be mistaken.  Amanda’s mouth dropped open.  “Then you…the two of you…are…?” 

Duncan nodded.  For a second, Amanda seemed flabbergasted.  A look of sharp pain flashed across her eyes, one so deep and horribly *lonely* that Milly felt her own heart crack in sympathy.  But it was gone in a second, utterly swept away in determined brightness.  “Well!  That is wonderful news!” she said cheerily…and if the cheer was just the tiniest bit forced, no-one, least of all Milly, would have faulted it her for it.  Nor for the tiny sardonic twist that crept onto her lips as she regarded them thoughtfully.  “It might, however, take me just a little while to get used to.”

“Tell me about it,” Methos murmured.  Jobey punched him softly.

“Excuse me.”  Maria had gone a little ahead, disappearing into the darkness of the cave.  She returned now, looking very worried, though she eyed Amanda with something like tired satisfaction.  “Ms. Darieux—good.  I’m sorry to interrupt your reunion with your friends, but…would you come this way?  All of you, please, Mr. Darwin and Professor Alfonso included.  There’s something I need you all to see.”

Silently meeting each other’s eyes--*Do you have any idea what all this is about?*  *No, I don’t.  Do you?* the little group of five moved out of the circle of lights under the cave opening, down a much darker path lit only by a line of emergency flares.  After what seemed a journey of miles—though it was probably only a few hundred feet—Milly saw where another ring of the tall tripod lights had been set up ahead, looming out of the dark like a curiously industrial Stonehenge.  Milly had to blink several times as they approached it.  The light within this second circle was very bright, even brighter than the circle under the cave mouth had been.  And *odd*, somehow.  Milly wondered if these lights had somehow gone bad and developed a subtle strobe effect, flickering just a hair too quickly for her eyes to really see.  She stepped through the circle…

And realized that the strange light wasn’t coming from the tripods, at all.

The cave floor that spread before Milly was strewn with pebbles, but otherwise it seemed perfectly smooth.  If there ever had been a sacred spring or pool there, there was certainly no evidence of it now.  What was there instead…

….was a *thing*. 

It was as if a bolt of lightning had been trapped and turned on its side.  It touched nothing, neither cave bottom nor ceiling, but instead hovered a few feet above the stone floor, a humungous branching slash of light that seemed to tear the air in two.  The same oddness in the light Milly had noticed outside the ring, that same almost imperceptible flicker, seemed to get stronger the closer she got.  Duncan’s face glimmered and danced as the glow passed over it, as did the faces of everyone else in the room.  The sight made every tiny hair on Milly’s skin stand on end.  Especially when she smelled the undeniable whiff of ozone in the air. 

But at the same time, the dancing light was also…entrancing.  Hypnotic.  As she watched, the flicker suddenly ceased, and waves of color began spilling out from within the tear:  colors Milly was sure she’d never before seen, let alone could name.  They started swirling beautifully along the cave floor and walls, pulsing over each of them in waves, creating a lightshow beyond Milly’s wildest imaging.  Tendrils of deep indigo-purple-yellow-something else waved over Duncan and Methos and Jobey, lingering on their faces for a moment before they, too, faded away; Duncan took a few faltering steps forward, reaching up and touching his cheek as if he’d just been caressed there.  “Methos,” he said, and his voice held both horror and excitement, anguish and joy.  “Methos.  It’s…”

 “I know, Duncan.”  To Milly’s shock, tears were rolling down the old Immortal’s cheeks.  “I know.  It’s her. I can feel it, too.”

“It’s not *just* her.  There’s something else here, too.  But Cassandra…” Duncan gulped, and a single tear of his own rolled down over his cheekbone.  “My god, Methos.  She’s trapped.  She’s so, so trapped...”

 “What?  Feel who?  Who is trapped?”  Jobey said Duncan in alarm.  “Mac, what’s going on?”

But Duncan just swallowed hard and shook his head, looking down at his toes.  It was Methos who answered.  “It’s Cassandra, Joe,” he told his husband.  “All of this…this lightning, this energy…it’s Cassandra’s Quickening.  Oh, it’s not just her; as Duncan says, there’s something else here too, something I can’t even begin to understand.  But Cassandra’s essence is ringing through this room like a church bell. And…Mac’s right.  She *is* trapped.  I can *feel*…”  He whirled on Maria, eyes red.  “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Even the most stoic human being on the planet could have been forgiven for quailing before the vengeful accusation in Methos’s voice.  But Maria merely looked weary.  “We killed her,” she said simply.

For a moment Milly thought Methos was going to strike Maria, simply backhand her where she stood to the floor… and for the first time, she really understood how Methos, who she’d always known as her sweet, brilliant, ever-supportive Alex, could once have been the Horseman known as Death.  But Methos stayed his hand.  “You did more than that,” he said dangerously.  “When an Immortal is beheaded by mortals, her Quickening goes to the nearest Immortal.  Or if there isn’t one close enough, it simply grounds itself in the earth and disappears.  It doesn’t create this … this travesty.  This *abomination*.”   Methos clenched his hands tightly at his side.  “So.  I’m going to ask you once again.  What.  Did.  You.  Do?”

He stared deeply into Maria’s eyes, holding her gaze with ruthless penetration.  She stood it bravely, eyes wild with pain and regret, but without even a single hint of fear.  Milly had to respect that, quite honestly.  She herself had rarely been more afraid.  “We killed her *here*,” Maria amended quietly.  “Forgive me, Dr. Porter, but I don’t think you’ve fully grasped where we are.  This cave was once the site of Sirona’s Well, was it not?  The healing spring that was guarded by the Immortal holy man who surrendered his head to Darius the Good?  And the place were Duncan MacLeod was healed of his Dark Quickening, in 1996?”  Methos nodded, eyes guarded.  “Then you *know*,” Maria finished. “This cave is special, Dr. Porter.  It may not be Holy Ground anymore, but even so…this place has never been known for playing by the rules.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“No, neither do I,” Maria answered.  “All I have is an educated guess.  But I think I might well be right.”  She nodded at the tear.  “Late in his life, Kahvin the Holy left a few writings that defined Holy Ground as places where the fabric of Kronos had worn thin, and bubbles of Kairos were free to push through.  The Kairos may be long gone from this cave now, Professor, its magic vanished with the Holy Spring.  But that doesn’t mean that the layer of Kronos the spring originally came through magically healed itself after it left.  It’s still damaged, full of cracks, little holes and tears where it’s possible to slip through into…into something else.  And I’m horribly afraid that’s what happened here.” Maria nodded at the glowing line.  “Instead of grounding and dispersing into the earth, Cassandra’s Quickening slipped through one of those tears, fell into the space between the layers.  That’s…”  Maria swallowed.  “I think that’s why she’s so trapped.”

Methos simply stared at her for a moment.  Then he turned back to the jagged line, a horrible light of reluctant understanding coming into his eyes.  Milly frowned. “But she’s not trapped.  Not really,” she said.  She reached out a hand at the dancing light, and smiled as it in turn seemed to reach out to her, sending an indescribable ray of not-red-not-yellow-not-orange undulating across her hand.  “Haven’t any of you Watchers ever seen Star Trek, or Doctor Who? This isn’t a prison, Maria.  It’s a portal.  A doorway.  I could walk right through…”

“Milly!  NO!”

The agonized shout from every corner of the cave.  Methos, Duncan, Jobey, and Amanda all screamed it more or less in unison.  Even Maria added a terrified “Dr. Alfonso!  Stop! PLEASE stop!” to the mix.  Duncan lunged for her, grabbing Milly by the arm and pulling her back with enough force that she lost her balance, stumbling away from him and falling to the floor.  She stared up at him, automatically rubbing her arm where he’d grabbed her, already knowing that it was going to bruise.  “I’m sorry,” Duncan panted.  “I’m so, so sorry.  But I had to stop you.  It—I—“  He shook his head helplessly.  “I would have lost you, Milly.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Maria said.  She turned to Milly, speaking earnestly.  “I know what you’re feeling, Dr. Alfonso.  That urge to touch the light, to walk through…I feel it, too.  So have about five percent of all the Watchers who have set foot into the cave has so far.  It’s why I’m not letting myself get any closer than I am to the anomaly--the attraction appears to get stronger with every step closer that you take.  You must *not* give into it, Dr. Alfonso.”

“Why not?”

“The team who first discovered this…I lost two people, when they tried to walk through.  They both died instantly, the moment they touched the tear.”  Maria looked down unhappily for a moment, the resolutely squared her chin.  “Not too surprising, really, if that energy really is Cassandra’s Quickening.  The Watchers have long known that it is instant death for any mortal to be touched by an Immortal’s Quickening.  But I…I had hoped….”  She turned to Methos.  “Dr. Porter, you and your friends are Immortal.  You are used to taking other Immortal’s Quickenings into your own.  Isn’t there some way that one of you could free Cassandra, if you tried?  Finish what we, in our great ignorance, began?  I—I’m sorry to say that I never spoke to Cassandra myself; all I know of her is what I read in her Chronicles.  But from what little I do know, I think she would be honored to reside with either you or Mr. MacLeod.” 

“Mac, maybe,” Methos said softly.  “Not me.  Never with me.”    He worried his lip with his front teeth for a moment, staring into the flickering light.  “Oh, I would take her anyway, if the only alternative was….” He waved a hand at the tear…. “…this.  But…I *can’t*.”  He raised helpless eyes to Duncan.  “Mac?”

“If Cassandra’s Quickening was free to come to one of us, it would have, the moment we got within range,” Duncan agreed.  “It can’t, Dr. Navarro-Tokalov.  She really is trapped.  I—god, I don’t know how to explain, but I can hear it, the same way I can hear that Amanda and Methos are Immortal, and that this really isn’t Holy Ground.  Amanda…?”

“I hear it, too,” Amanda said quietly.  “I don’t know how to explain it either, but I could almost from the moment we entered the cave.  There’s something very, very wrong here, Dr. Navarro-Tokalov.  Maybe there is some kind of mysterious crack between worlds that Cassandra has fallen into, I don’t know.  All I know is that she is truly trapped, like a fly in amber.  No, that’s not right…it’s more like a spider, caught in the water swirling down a bathtub drain.  If one of us tried to touch that…that whatever that is….in order to free her…we’d get caught up in the same vortex.  We’d be trapped, too.”  Amanda shuddered.  “Our Quickenings would be torn from our bodies and we’d be stuck with Cassandra forever.  It would be…worse than death.”

“Nevertheless,” said a cold voice, speaking from behind them, “That is exactly what one of you is going to do, Ms. Darieux. It is only a question of who. ” The voice rose warningly.  “And you may stay right where you are, Mr. MacLeod…thank you.  I assure you, your usual heroics will do you no good here.  I have a Watcher with a machine gun pointed at each one of you, and I will not hesitate to order them to fire.  Which may mean nothing to you and the Librarian and the Thief, I realize.  But the mortal members of your party might not appreciate it as much…ah, I see we understand each other.”  The voice became smugly self-satisfied.  “Very good.  If you could all just place your hands on your heads and turn around—yes, you too, Dr. Navarro-Tokalov.  Slowly, now.  Yes, that’s very good.”

Milly shot an agonized look at Duncan before she obeyed.  But he nodded at her slightly, and she had no idea what else to do, so she put her hands on top of her head.  She revolved slowly, facing the speaker whose identity she already knew. 

Dr. Primrose Bard was once again in the house.


	13. is round and open.

Maria was direct and to the point.  “I left more than twenty Watchers standing guard, under the cave mouth and in the field,” she said calmly.  “What have you done to my people, Dr. Bard?”

Primrose shrugged daintily.  She had half a dozen black-clad Watchers arrayed behind her, each bearing one of the promised machine guns.  Primrose herself was carrying an elegant semi-automatic handgun, considerably smaller than the other weapons…but somehow, combined with the madness Milly could now see clearly glimmering away in her ex-girlfriend’s cold eyes, it seemed even scarier than its larger cousins.  Maybe that was because, unlike the machine guns, which were evenly divided amongst them all, Primrose’s handgun was pointed solely at Milly herself.  Why?  Ex-girlfriend-ly jealousy and pique?  Or was it simply strategy—Primrose saw Milly as the weakest member of the sextet, and thus the one the greatest number of others would die to protect?  “Never fear,” Primrose told Maria coolly.  “Tritaxmatazine is a very useful thing, Dr. Navarro-Tokalov.  Those of your people who were truly unwilling to see things my way are simply unconscious, now.” Primrose smiled broadly.  “But I rather think that’s a much smaller number than you’d expect.” 

Maria’s eyes pressed close.  “That’s how you escaped your containment, then,” she said.  “One of my own people let you out.”

“Exactly.”  Primrose’s lips quirked upward into an elegant sneer.  “Tell me, Doctor.  Did you *really* think the entire Watcher organization would follow someone like you?  You, a *researcher*?  A *historian*? Of course not.  Especially not once they’d seen this.”  She nodded at the glowing, flashing light.  “The events foretold by Kahvin the Holy’s Prophecy are finally at hand.  You know it, I know it, and so does every Watcher who ever took the oath.  If any of us are to survive this, strong leadership is needed.  Leadership that can only come from one person.  Me.”

“And just what kind of—leadership—“  Maria almost choked on the word—“Are you intending to provide, Dr. Bard?”

Primrose’s smile was as cold as ice.  “The decisive kind.” 

“Oh, yes.  Very good.  *Very* threatening,” Methos said sarcastically.  He stepped slightly forward, clapping his hands together in a slow mockery of applause.  “All hail Chairman Bard.  Yes, Primrose, you’re the leader now.  And no doubt you have all kinds of unpleasant, ‘decisive’ plans for our future.  But before you make too much fun of humble researchers like Dr. Navarro-Tokalov and myself, may I suggest you take another look at your source material?”  He placed his hands on his hips, looking at Primrose disdainfully down the full length of his nose.  “Kavhin’s Prophecy was about the end of the *Game*, Primrose.  The final battle, allegedly meant to take place between Duncan and me.  Surely not even you could be so dense as to think *that’s* still going to happen.” 

“Wait a minute,” Amanda interrupted, clearly startled.  “That’s what all this is has been about?  Some stupid prophecy saying that you and Mac were supposed to be the final Two?”

“Yes,” Duncan answered, favoring her with a soft smile.  “You were supposed to be used as a hostage, in case one or both of us didn’t want to fight.  Surprised?”

“Astonished,” Amanda retorted.  “Why, everyone knows that it’s going to be Kate and *me* who dance the final dance.  There’s no way any of you guys could ever hope to out-wile either of us.  Why, the only reason we’ve kept any of you around for this long is because you’re so incredibly nice to look at.  Besides.”  She turned on Primrose incredulously.  “It is way, way too early to even be thinking about the Gathering!   I know both Mac and Aaron have taken out a ridiculous number of Challengers over the last few decades, but I can name at least thirty or forty of us who still have our heads without even trying.  And there’s got to be countless more.”  Amanda sniffed.  “The slogan is ‘There can be only One’, you know.  Not ‘There can be only One, plus several dozen who were too late to make it to the party.’”

“What she said,” Methos agreed, pointing at Amanda.  “And even if the three of us in this cave really *were* the last three Immortals on earth…none of us have exactly been struck with an inescapable desire to try for each other’s heads.  And believe me:  that is a very, very good thing.  Because in case you haven’t noticed…there is a GREAT BIG FUCKING TEAR IN THE FABRIC OF TIME ITSELF hovering just over there.  Can you imagine what would happen if one of us poured MORE energy into it by taking a head?  How the fabric could rip even further?  And what that could do to the world outside?”  He took an apprehensive look back at the shimmering, glowing light, shivering where he stood.  “It’s unthinkable.”

“It is unthinkable,” Primrose agreed calmly.  “In the strictest sense of the word, Librarian.  I don’t think any of us can truly comprehend what the consequences might be if that…thing…should spread beyond this cave.  But I’m sure we can all agree it would be catastrophic.  And it is exactly that ‘unthinkable’ catastrophe that I am trying to prevent.”  Primrose stared meditatively into the hovering line, odd waves of time-light flickering over her face.  “After all, the unthinkable has already happened here once.  When Cassandra took her own head on the ground above this cave.” 

She couldn’t have caused more shock if she’d tried.  Methos, Duncan, Amanda, Jobey and Maria all looked stunned.  After a moment, Methos spoke, sounding as if he had to work very hard to summon up each word.  “What do you mean?”

 “I mean exactly what you think I mean, Librarian.” Primrose said tautly.  “*I* did not strike the blow that separated the Immortal Cassandra from her head.  She did that herself.”

“What?” Maria exclaimed.  “Dr. Bard, don’t be ridiculous.  I was there.  I saw you take her head.”

“Did you?” Primrose asked.  “Or did your extreme moral cowardice cause you to close your eyes at the last moment, just before the sword finally fell?”   Maria flushed.  Primrose gave her a look of cold triumph. “Oh, make no question of it, I was going to kill her,” she said calmly.  “Cassandra was one of the oldest Immortals left in the Game, after all.  And since I knew there was no way I could ever convince Duncan MacLeod to take her head, I had to take it myself, just to keep her power from going to *you*, Librarian.  But at the last moment, just as she was kneeling before me, Cassandra slipped free of her bonds.  She made no attempt to get away, however.  Instead, she put her own hands on my weapon, and forced it through her own neck.”  Maria made a loud, shocked sound.  Primrose looked at her pityingly.  “Surprised, Dr. Navarro-Tokalov?  Believe me, so was I.  Still, surprised or not, I’m afraid it’s the truth.  The Immortal Cassandra didn’t die at my hand.  She died at her own.”

“She—she took her own life?”  Duncan had gone ghost-pale in the odd light.  “But that’s…that’s…”

“Almost unheard of.  And very, very dangerous.  Yes.” 

Maria pressed a hand to her lips, her eyes widening in sudden, horrified comprehension.  She wasn’t the only one.  Duncan, Amanda, and even Jobey looked just as shaken.  Which, once again, left Milly as the odd woman out, the only one who didn’t know what was apparently obvious to all the rest.  “I don’t understand,” she said.  “Why is it so dangerous?”

“There are reasons why Immortals don’t commit solitary suicide, Milly,” Amanda answered hoarsely.  “Even at our most desperate, none of us would willingly sever our own heads without another Immortal nearby.  It’s not just a matter of our Quickenings being lost in the earth, as would happen if a mortal held the sword.  It’s…”  She trailed off, clearly too horrified to speak.

“It can create…a kind of feedback loop.” Methos took up the explanation for Amanda, though he was clearly just as disturbed.  “The Immortal becomes his own Challenger, you see, both surrenders to and dominates himself.  If there’s no other Immortal around to provide a physical focus for it, the Quickening just…homes in on itself.  It doesn’t ground in the earth.  It just keeps circling forever, round and round, without end...”  He stared at the light-tear, than at Primrose, aghast.  “We all just *know* this, instinctively, the same way we know we can never take a head on Holy Ground.   I don’t think it’s ever actually happened before.  Not once.”

 Primrose nodded, looking at Methos almost proudly.  “Yes, Librarian,” she agreed.   “Except it may have, long ago.  There have been rumors for millennia that what really happened in Pompeii in 79 AD was an Immortal suicide.  Not a Challenge fought on Holy Ground, at all.” 

“Wait a minute.  79 AD? That’s the year that Mount Vesuvius erupted, burying Pompeii in ash,” Milly said.  Primrose nodded negligently, her gaze never leaving Methos’s face.  Milly’s voice rose indignantly.  “And you...what, you think they were cause and effect?  That this Immortal killing himself in Pompeii somehow caused a *volcano* to erupt?”

“I believe it’s likely,” Primrose answered calmly.  “Kairos, Millicent.  It all comes back to Kairos.  An Immortal’s Quickening is *made* of Kairos.  When it is trapped in one place, without a focus…especially in a place that is already rich in Kairos of its own…the energy is too great.  The fabric of Kronos—our reality—can’t help but be ripped asunder.  It took an earthquake and a volcanic eruption to fix that tear in Pompeii—the only way for the rip to be closed was for the earth to cover it up, bury the whole city in smothering ash.  I don’t know if that’s what’s going to happen here.  But something *is* going to happen.  Perhaps something even more catastrophic.”

“You don’t know that, Primrose!”

“Don’t I?”  Primrose shook her head, as if deeply disappointed in her former lover.  “Naturally, no Watcher Chronicles from Pompeii survive.  They were all buried in the ash along with the city.  But at least one Watcher did make it to safety before the eruption, and his accounts have been passed down verbally over the centuries.  He describes the way the unknown Immortal’s Quickening seemed to freeze in the sky over the Temple of Apollo, creating a jagged line of light that slowly but inexorably grew.  And as it did, the earth itself began to rumble….” She shrugged elegantly.  “As Dr. Navarro-Tokalov will doubtlessly tell you, this so called ‘anomaly’ has been steadily growing.  It has increased in size more than 300% since her team first began to monitor it.  And the first earthquake tremor Bordeaux has experienced since 1909 happened a little less than six hours ago.  It was very slight, of course. I doubt your average citizen even felt it at all—we Watchers only knew because we have been monitoring this cave with special equipment.  But in the hours since there has been a second quake, and a third, and they’ve gained a little in power each time.  There is no doubt in my mind that we are standing in a second Pompeii.  Except that this time, there’s no convenient volcano around full of lava and ash to patch the tear.”   And all the emotion suddenly vanished from Primrose’s face, leaving nothing but a cold, blank mask.  “This time, the tear will grow until there is no earth, no world, no Kronos left.  It will literally be The End of Time spoken of in Kahvin’s Prophecy.  Unless something is done to stop it.”

“And what can be done, Dr. Bard?” Jobey demanded heatedly.  “You and your people are the ones that caused this mess, after all!  You may not have actually taken Cassandra’s head yourself, but you certainly put the damn sword where she could reach it!  Just what the hell do you think can be done to fix this?”

Primrose opened her mouth.  But it was Methos who answered his husband, eyeing Primrose warily.  “She’s banking on another Immortal sacrifice, Joe.”

“What? But—“ And then Jobey stopped talking.

“Oh, it’s very obvious what the good doctor is thinking,” Methos answered.  “The prophecy.  It all comes back to the prophecy.  For centuries, the Token Bearers assumed that Kahvin was talking about the Gathering when he wrote about two champions standing at the End of Time.  God help us all, they believed it enough to manipulate the Game, even enough to *kill* countless Immortals to make it come to pass.   But now that we’re actually here….” He shook his head derisively.  “Now, they’ve decided that this…this so-called ‘anomaly’…must be what Kahvin was talking about all along.”

“Methos?”

“Dr. Bard thinks this was all prophesied, Joe.  Three ‘champions’—or at least, three Immortals—are standing here, after all.  A man from the high lands, a librarian, and a thief, just like Kahvin said.  And remember the rest? ‘Willingness will open the door—willingness alone can build that door into a bridge.’  I always thought that was strangely worded.  But no doubt, in their minds, it all makes perfect sense.”  He shrugged lightly.  “What is a Quickening after all—at least the portion mortals can see—but a kind of bridge?  Lightning bridges the gap between earth and sky; Quickening fire bridges the gap between beings.  They think that Sandra’s suicide—her willing sacrifice—opened this tear in time.  And so *naturally* it follows that only another Quickening, from another willing Immortal death, can build the bridge necessary for the energy to earth and the tear to close.”  He cocked his head suddenly, grinning at Primrose with an almost manic glee.  “Well, Dr. Bard?  Were you planning to cut off my head yourself?  Or did you think it will be enough simply to force me to walk into that…that thing…with my head still attached?  I suspect I’ll be just as dead, either way.”

“Not you, Librarian,” Primrose answered.  “Never you.  Even if I thought somehow that you could truly be brought to be ‘willing’ to give up your life—a doubtful prospect, as we both know exactly what kind of monster you are--you carry the essence of my Harpist. I already told you I will not allow that to be lost.  But as to the rest…you are quite correct.”  She raised her voice, and it seemed to Milly that she was speaking to the gathered Watchers more than she was to them.  “Another sacrifice IS required.  We have indeed thought for centuries that that sacrifice Kahvin wrote about would be the willing sacrifice of a head, as in the final Challenge of the Game.  But now that we are here—it is apparent that a different kind is needed.”   She smiled pleasantly.  “One of you will be walking into that ‘thing’, as the Librarian so eloquently phrased it, before too much more time has passed.  But—as long as it not the Librarian himself—I really don’t care which one of you it is.”  She looked thoughtful.  “I don’t even think it even has to be an Immortal, to tell you the truth.”

Methos froze.  “What did you just say?”

“Come, come, Librarian.  One would think your ears were plugged,” Primrose chided him playfully.  “Surely you remember the prophecy.  It didn’t just speak of the final two, or even the final three who would be present at The End of Time.  It spoke of six.  ‘Three will become six that has always been but three, as each two is really but one.’  And how many of your family members are standing before me now, including yourself?  Five.  Four of whom are divided into couples, intimately involved.  And I’m sure the total number would be six, making up three couples, if I hadn’t made the mistake of killing Nick Wolfe so prematurely.  After all, the 6th member of your circle was meant to ‘carry and be carried by the love of a thief.’”  Primrose smiled icily.  “I always thought it was romantic claptrap, myself, this notion that simply because you have sex with someone and develop a chemically-induced bias toward him or her that your souls must therefore be bound into one.  But Kahvin the Holy seems to have been a romantic.   And you and your husband have often been overheard saying that you and he are simply two halves of the same being, after all. So.”  Primrose’s smile disappeared.  “I would be more than happy to accept Mr. Dawson’s willing sacrifice, instead.”

There was a long, cold, horrified silence.  Then Jobey stepped forward, tugging his rumpled sport jacket resolutely into place.  He looked very scared and very worn, Milly thought.  But also …magnificent.  Shining with an inner light of nobility and strength that made the waving time-light seem dim.  “All right,” he said quietly.  “Tell me what I need to do.”

“Joe!” Methos shouted.

“I think it could work, Methos!” Jobey shouted right back.  “Primrose is right, you know.  The two of us…we *are* a part of each other, in a way that goes far beyond romantic poetry.  We both know that.  If the Kairos in Cassandra’s Quickening was enough to force open this rift…maybe the Kairos I took from you all those years ago will be enough to build that bridge that closes it.  It’s worth a try, anyway.”  He brought up his chin and resettled his feet on the cave floor, strongly, bravely.  “And I am willing,” he said softly.  “A bit reluctant, yeah.  I don’t want to leave you, Methos.  Not now.  Not ever.  But…I’m the oldest one here. The one that’s closest to my end, in the natural way of things.  If I have to give up a few years so the rest of you can live…”

Methos stepped up beside him, carefully took his husband’s hand.  He spoke very, very gently.  “No, Joe.”

“But don’t you understand?”  Jobey’s eyes were full of tears.  “The prophecy said that whoever made the sacrifice would be getting the best possible end.  I’m 86 years old, Methos.  This…this is a better death than anything I could ever have imagined.  Better than anything else that could possibly be lying ahead.  It’s certainly better than letting another bout with cancer get me.  Better than…”

Methos shook his head slowly, deliberately.  “It’s not better than what I have planned,” he said.  “Have had planned, always.  From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I think.  Even though I’ll freely admit that I didn’t quite understand just how I was going to make it happen at the time.” He planted a soft, purposeful kiss on Joe’s forehead.  “You, Joseph Dawson, are going to die in my arms.  I don’t know just how, and I don’t know just where.   But I do know it’s going to be peaceful, good, the two of us lying side by side, with me holding you as you close your eyes and let the last of the world go.”  He cocked his head thoughtfully to one side.  “Now.  Whether or not I ever choose to get up again after that is still a matter for debate…”

Joe breathed in, harshly.  Next to her, Millie felt every muscle in Duncan’s body suddenly go rigid.  She looked up at him, startled, and saw that his face was twisted with pain.  “Methos,” he breathed.

Methos ignored them both.  “As I said, that’s still a matter for debate,” he went on calmly.  “I think, on the whole, that I will...because I won’t be alone.  You’ll be a part of me, then, one hundred percent mine in a way you simply can’t be now.  And the two of us working together have always been able to handle anything the world throws our way.  But I can’t know for sure until the moment comes.”  He shook his head, smiling softly, and Milly knew that just for that moment, nothing in the world existed for Methos except for Joe.  “What I *do* know is this.  When the moment does finally come, it will just be the two of us, and the time will truly be right.  It is *not* going to happen in front of half a dozen machine-gun wielding strangers, just because we’re being blackmailed by a bunch of idiots too stupid to interpret their own damn prophecies.  And it sure as hell isn’t going to happen today.”  He placed another kiss on Joe’s face, this one affectionate, on the very end of his nose, and when Joe simply gaped at him Methos straightened up and turned him around to face Primrose, hands still firmly planted on Joe’s shoulders like a grown-up guiding a naughty child.  “Sorry, Dr. Bard,” he said.  “If I remember correctly, your script specifies both willingness and the best possible end.  As you can see, neither applies here.  I’m afraid you need to look elsewhere for your willing sacrifice.  This bus just isn’t for us.”

Joe still looked stunned…but as Millie watched, he closed his mouth and nodded, one hand sneaking behind his body to wind itself into the soft folds of Methos’s grey t-shirt.  Primrose, expression completely impassive—how the HELL could Milly ever have gone to bed with a woman that ruthless, no matter how young she’d been at the time?—simply nodded.  She turned her head, instantly dismissing the couple as effortlessly as if they’d never been, and let her cold gaze fall elsewhere. 

On Duncan. 

There was a brief silence.  Then, Milly felt it.  Duncan had taken a tiny step forward, and was gently detangling his hand from hers.  “It’s all right,” he said quietly.  “You don’t have to look any farther.  It’s me the prophecies were talking about.  I think I’ve known it all along.”

Milly stared up at him, agony in her eyes.  He looked down at her, face flushed and eyes a little teary, but essentially calm.  At peace.  From across the chamber, Milly heard Joe gasp.  Then Methos’s voice rang out, irritated and annoyed and oddly dangerous, like a man who had had just about enough of this day’s particular form of shit was perilously close to doing something about it.  “Oh, for god’s sake, Highlander,” he said.  “Don’t be an ass.  There’s no need to throw your precious heroic Highland self on the sword this time.”

“I’m not being an ass, Methos.”

“Aren’t you?”  Methos’s voice rose shrilly.  “I think that’s exactly what you’re being.  You read the prophecy; the sacrifice must be willing.  If none of us are, what the hell can they do?  Torture us until we’re ready to do anything to make it stop?  That doesn’t sound exactly like ‘true willingness’ to me.  No.  They’ll be forced to let us go.  We can all just go home…”

“And what will happen then, Methos?” Duncan asked.  “When this rift in time has continued to grow, and breaks through the walls of this cave?”

“We don’t know that’s going to happen!  All we have is one damned woman’s word, based on a legend that has probably been rewritten a thousand times as it came down through the centuries!” Methos shot back.  “Even if by some odd twist of fate the legend actually was true, and an Immortal suicide really did cause the destruction in Pompeii…there’s no reason to believe that the same thing is going to happen here.  As Maria pointed out, this place—this cave—has always played by its own rules.  Maybe it’s still separate enough from the world of Kronos to contain the tear.  Or maybe Cassandra’s energy will find some way of grounding itself on its own, if we just give it enough time.  For all we know, walking into that thing—combining your Quickening with Cassandra’s—might just make it grow *faster*!”  He glared at Duncan beseechingly.    “Don’t do this, MacLeod.  Don’t throw your entire being away on an unknown.  It’s like I said.  If none of us are willing, they have to let us walk away…”

“Actually,” Primrose interrupted calmly, “the prophecy’s concept of ‘willingness” is, I think, subject to some interpretation.  Outright physical torture is, I agree, completely out of the question.  But I think I might still have some latitude when it comes to applying a little…pressure…to tip the scales.”  She snapped her fingers. 

Instantly, two of the armed Watchers separated from their circle and went to Amanda.  One put a hand over her mouth and pulling her head back by the hair, while the second pointed his machine gun to her head.  Primrose addressed Duncan directly, effectively erasing the rest of them from existence.  “Not only do I still have guns on Dr. Alphonso and Mr. Dawson, but Amanda is still entirely in our power, you know.  I didn’t mention it earlier because Cassandra’s prophecies make it clear exactly what kind of man the Eldest is, and I knew such a thing would never hold sway over *him*.  But you, Highlander, are different.  If any of you try to leave this place without one of you entering the rift, I promise you: we will take Amanda someplace far away, where she will die at mortal hands.  And be lost to the Tide forever, as so many others have been.”

But Duncan was shaking his head.  “All you’ve done,” he told Primrose steadily, “is delay things a little.  Because now I will insist that you set Amanda free again before I walk into the tear.  But I was going to agree, anyway.”

Amanda, gagged by the Watcher’s hand, made a helpless “Mmmmungung!” sound.  Methos’s voice rang out a like a particularly shocked claxon bell.  “Highlander!”

“I’m not unwilling, Methos!” Duncan shouted back.  “Regretful, maybe, just like Joe.  But hardly unwilling.”  He turned back to Milly, taking both of her hands in his and looking anxiously down into her face.  “You understand, Milly.  Don’t you?”

And she did.  Heartbreaking as it was…and god, did she feel like she finally understood the true meaning of that word for the first time …she did understand.  “It’s who you are,” she agreed.  “It’s like what Cassie said, back in New Camelot.  And what I heard Alex say too, back on the island.  Being a warrior protector is coded into your DNA.  Sooner or later, you were always going to find a cause that was great enough to be worth the ultimate sacrifice.”  She smiled crookedly.  “And I think saving the entire universe qualifies.  Especially if you can set Cassandra’s Quickening free and save all four of the people left in the world that you love, in the bargain.” 

He nodded softly, still cradling both of Milly’s hands in his palms.  She tried to pull hers away, tried to reach up to touch his face, only to find that she didn’t have the strength.  “Oh,” she said, and now she really *did* feel her heart breaking, cracking painfully into two as if stabbed and then crumbling away into nothing within her chest.  “Oh, but…”

He raised her hands for her, cradling them to his chest, while still looking down at her with that fathomless understanding, the same expression that had given her the courage to fall in love with him in the first place.  How on earth was she going to live without seeing it every day?  “’But?’” he repeated gently.

“But…”  And now she was crying, tears rolling in a flood down her cheeks.  “But…we’d only just got started.”

He brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, gently, tenderly.  “I know.”

“And we…”  She shook her head frantically. “And we…the two of us…we fit.  More than that: we balance. Your Immortality to my mortality.  Your courage to my caution, my enthusiasm to your skepticism.  Your light to my dark places.  My light to your dark places, too! You know it’s true.  You do.”

“I know.”  He nodded.  “I know.  It’s true.”

“Then…” Oh, god.  She really was crying now, so hard she had to gulp through her sobs in order to get enough air to breath.  “Then how can you even think about leaving?”

“Because it’s my time.”  He pressed her hands more firmly to his heart.  “Oh, god, Milly. This I really *don’t* expect you to understand.  But try for me, anyway.  I’ve known for years this day was coming.  Maybe even for decades.”  He shook his head.  “I’ve lived my span, Milly.  It’s time for me to go.”

“But you’re so young!”

That brought a tiny smile to his lips.  “Only because you’ve been hanging around Methos for so long,” he answered.  “But it’s not the years that tells an Immortal when it’s time to die, Millicent.  It’s the heart.  And mine is tired, Milly.  So very, very tired.  Not just of the killing….of *everything*.  I have been for a very long time, now.  But there’s even more to it than that.”  He squeezed her hands, his eyes looking down at her imploringly, begging her for understanding.  “That Immortal homing instinct Primrose mentioned?  I’ve been feeling it for so, so long.  When I finally contacted Joe after Cassandra left, and asked if I could come to him and Methos…it wasn’t really because I wanted to bring them the map.  It was because I knew my last day was finally drawing near.  I thought…”  And now Duncan’s voice was cracking too.  “I thought I was going to have to force Methos into taking my head, the same way Connor did to me.  This is better.  Much, much better.”

Milly thought she heard Alex whisper a shocked, painfully empathic “Oh, Highlander,” but she didn’t turn to be sure.  Instead she just nodded, nodded even though her chest hurt so much she couldn’t breathe, nodded because she did understand, and denying him that understanding was unthinkable.  Her tears doubled in intensity.  “I’m going with you.”

“No.”  And now he was smiling again, his most genuine and beautiful smile, the one she hadn’t seen since before they left the island.  “No.  You aren’t.  You are going to stay here, Milly.”  And then, incredibly, he was kneeling before her, getting down on one knee.  “Stay, and live, and carry all the best parts of me into the future.  Including my name, if you’ll have it.  Will you?”

She stared.  She stared so hard it felt like her eyes were about to pop out of her head.  “Seriously,” she said.  “You’re seriously proposing to me.  Now.  Of all the possible moments?”

“Well.  It’s not as if the idea hadn’t occurred to me before,” he answered, eyes sparkling with humor.  “About a million times, in a fact.  But there never seemed to be quite the right moment…and anyway, there was the small matter of this prophesy a gypsy I once knew made, dooming me to journey to the end of time without ever having a wife.  Joe can give you the details later, if you’re interested.”  Duncan gave an irreverent little shrug.  “But seeing as the end of time is hanging right over there, I think I might finally have travelled long enough.  And anyway, this is hardly the traditional proposal.” He sobered.  “I can’t offer you a ring, Milly, or a church wedding, or a life.  But I can offer you my name, and my heart right along with it.  Will you take them?”

She didn’t trust herself to speak.  She simply nodded.  And watched while Duncan’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.  “Then everything really is all right,” he said.   He got to his feet and kissed her, sweetly, beautifully.  Then moved to her side and tucked her arm under his, looking squarely at Primrose.  “All right,” he told her, voice commanding.  “I’m ready now, Dr. Bard.  Free Amanda.  Then I’ll walk into the rift.”

Primrose made a tiny gesture with her hand.  Instantly, Amanda’s captors set her free.  “Duncan!” she shrieked, moving toward them.  A line of Watchers quickly stepped between them and her, machine guns trained on Amanda’s heart; Amanda stopped in mid step, eyes rolling.  “Oh, for god’s sake, I wasn’t going to try to stop him!” she said.  “Just to give him something first.”  She stripped something golden from her left hand.  “Duncan!  Catch!”

The thing flew through the air, glinting as it went.  Duncan snatched it out of the air.  He looked at it, then back at Amanda, an incredulous question on his face.  She nodded.  “Yes, it’s okay,” she said earnestly, though the tears were streaming down her face.  “Nick would have wanted you two to have it.  I do, too.”  She jerked her head at Milly.  “Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot!  The girl said yes, you know.  Agreed to marry your stupid, hard-headed, completely unreasonably heroic Highland self.  Don’t you think an act of bravery like that *deserves* a ring?  Put it on her finger, already!”

“Amanda.”  There was an entire lifetime’s worth of emotion in the word.  All their history, all the love…and a sweet final, goodbye.  “Amanda.  Thank you.” 

She nodded, hands clasped over her heart.  Duncan gave her one last smile before turning back to Milly.  “Well,” he said, voice choked.  “I guess I do have a ring to give you after all.  Will you…” 

Milly didn’t wait for him to finish.  She just sniffled and held out her hand.  Duncan slipped the ring onto her fourth finger—it was a simple gold band with one very fine diamond set flush within it, sparkling in the strange time-light as brightly as an alien sun—and crushed her to him.  Not for a kiss this time, but for a hug, the kind of embrace someone gives when all you want to do is hold on forever.  Milly held on just as tightly.  “I love you,” she whispered into his chest.

“I love *you*.”  The words were ferocious.  He squeezed her even more tightly, than released her, pulling back far enough to look into her eyes.  “But that’s even more reason why I have to go.  You do understand.  Don’t you?”

She nodded.  “It’s who you are,” she confirmed. 

And it seemed that it was exactly the right thing to say.  Because the smile Duncan gave her then wasn’t sad in the slightest.  It was…well.  It was the smile someone gives you when you’ve just confirmed that you’ve seen them, seen to the deepest part of their very core, and love them anyway.  It seemed to Milly that Duncan’s whole being was shining in that moment, shining more brightly than her diamond or even the strangely pulsing time vortex itself—and Milly would carry that memory with her to her own ‘end of time’, whenever or however it would be.  She gave him one more hug, holding him close, taking one last breath of the unique, warm fragrance of his skin.  Then she resolutely set him free.  “Go,” she breathed. “Be what you are.”

He bent low, whispered in her ear.  “I love you, Milly MacLeod.”  He brushed a final kiss over her hair.  And then…he was walking away.

The line of Watchers parted for him, guns dangling limply from their hands.  They didn’t even object when Duncan walked through them to Amanda, taking the Immortal thief in his arms for a final hug and kiss of her own.  Amanda, half laughing, half crying, patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and sent him on his way. 

Which just left the two men on the far side of the cave.  Alex had turned his back to the assembled company.  He was staring up high at the dark and dripping cave walls, taking great gasps of air in a seemingly futile effort to calm himself.  “Methos?” Duncan said cautiously. 

The old, old Immortal refused to turn around, refused to even acknowledge Duncan’s presence in any way.  Milly saw the pain that went through her beloved at that, and also the understanding.  He swallowed hard, and looked at Jobey instead.  “Joe?”

Jobey shot an uncomfortable look at Methos…then melted.  “Oh, Mac.”  He embraced the Highlander energetically. “This…this is seriously fucked up, you know,” Jobey said into his chest.  “Not only was I supposed to die long, long before you, but Methos is right.  All you have to do is say no, and we could all just leave together…”

But Duncan was shaking his head.  “No,” he said.  “I can *hear* them, Joe.   The Second Chorus.  I think they’re calling me.  It’s finally time.”  Back turned to her, Milly couldn’t see the look he gave Joe then…but whatever it was, it seemed to silence whatever arguments Jobey still had left to make.  His eyes went wide…then filled with tears, as the old mortal dropped his head in acceptance.  Duncan gave him one last squeeze and gently detangled himself from Jobey’s embrace, looking at Methos, who was still standing with his face to the wall.  “Methos?” he said.  Hopefully.

And that was when things got *really* strange.

***

Strange because to Milly, it suddenly felt like she had seen this particular scene before.  Or more accurately…she was seeing *another* scene at exactly the same time, one that greatly resembled the first.  It was a bit like having somebody place an old-fashioned transparency over a television screen.  Milly could see the Watchers and the time-tear and the three men standing together at the far side of the chamber.  But she could also see the same three men grouped together elsewhere, in a similar tableau in an entirely different underground room.   Milly blinked, trying to focus on that other room in order to see it better, and all motion within the Sacred Cave suddenly ceased. Milly was left staring at the equally frozen second picture, trying to make sense of what she saw. 

Duncan was on the ground, kneeling by a…Milly swallowed…a headless body.  His hair was streaming loosely around his face, and his face itself was—broken. Milly could find no other word for it.  It wasn’t broken physically; there wasn’t so much as a single scratch or bruise marring Duncan’s desperate beauty.  But his face was still broken nonetheless, as if everything that mattered to him had been ruthlessly torn away.  Duncan had his bloody katana in his hands, and seemed to be offering it to Alex…who had turned his back on him, while a much younger Jobey looked on in speechless horror.  “I don’t understand,” Milly said aloud.  “What *is* this?”

“Déjà vu all over again,” said a voice behind her. 

Milly twisted her head. There, standing right at the edge of the time-tear, was a young man…a rather handsome young man, dressed in antiquated jeans and sneakers.  He gave her a friendly smile before nodding at the frozen men.  “If this all looks familiar to you, that’s because it *is*,” he said.  “Methos turned his back on Mac the last time Mac asked him to help him die, too.”  The young man shook his head fondly.  “Man.  You’d really think they’d have worked out their issues by now, wouldn’t you?”

“They are working out their issues, Richard,” said another voice.  Milly blinked again, and suddenly there was another man standing next to the first—this one slightly older, with red hair and very vivid, almost startling blue eyes.  He was wearing a beige tweed suit and cap that wouldn’t have looked out of place during the last world war, and he, too, nodded at the kneeling Duncan.  “These moments had to happen, both of them.  Duncan had to know what it was like to ask for death from Adam and be refused, and Adam had to know what it was like to be asked and do the refusing.  They would never have been able to find a balance, otherwise.  Not with the history of Adam’s earlier surrender lying between them.”  The newcomer doffed his cap respectfully to Milly.  “It is my honor to finally meet you, Dr. MacLeod.  I’m Sean Burns, at your service.  And this…” He nodded at the younger man with warm affection… “is Richard Ryan.  Richie, to his friends.  Which I am very sure you soon will be.”

“Richie?”

“That’s right. I’m Richie.  And you are Milly.  Dr. Milly *MacLeod*.”  The young man cocked his head to one side, looking Milly over from head to toe with sparkling eyes.  “Which, to be brutally, painfully honest with you?  Wasn’t something *I* ever expected to see happen.  Mac may be the bravest man I ever met in a lot of ways…but he’s still a coward in a lot of others.  I never thought he’d get up the courage to actually pop the question to anyone again. But since he has…” He smiled at her fondly.  “Welcome to the family, Milly.  I’m so glad Mac found his way to you at last. ”

It was too much.  Milly found herself sagging, and sat down quickly—if very ungracefully-- on the pebble-strewn floor in order to avoid an even less graceful falling down.  She hugged her knees to her chest.  “I’m sorry,” she said politely.  “Who did you say you were again?”

“I’m Richie.  Richard Ryan?”  Milly just shook her head.  He put his hands on his hips.  “Well, how do you like that,” he said.  “I’ve been gone for less than forty years, after all.  I’d be mad they all stopped talking about me…except that I already know they never stopped *thinking* about me.  Not even Methos.” He gave Milly a gentle shrug. “We can hear love singing to us, you know.  From the other chorus.” 

“We can indeed, Dr. MacLeod.” The other man nodded at Milly earnestly.  “Love is by far the clearest, the most enduring note in the great symphony.  It always reaches us.  Always.”  He smiled.  “Which is how we know that you are very, very loved indeed.”

“Yeah, Sean’s got that right,” Richard Ryan agreed.  “Thinking of you makes both Joe and Methos hum like…like the first chord in a Beatle’s song.  And it practically turns Mac into one of those awful old-fashioned opera arias he loves so much.”  He regarded the kneeling Duncan fondly.  “It’s a good thing being in the Second Chorus has broadened my musical tastes.  If I was still mortal I wouldn’t be able to stand it…and I’m pretty sure that Mac’s going to sound like that all the time, now.”  His smile widened, became even more beautiful.  “Especially now that we’re *here*.”

Her head was spinning.  “And just where is here, exactly?”

He frowned.  “The End of Time,” he said.  “Or the beginning of the end, at least.  Someplace *new*.  I thought you’d figured that out already.” 

***

“You see, Dr. MacLeod,” Sean said earnestly, seeing Milly’s confusion and stepping bravely into the breach, “For generations out of mind, Immortals have been a bridge between all three realms of time.  When we live within what you think of as “the real world”, we stand with one foot in two of them.  Kairos, the realm of wild magic and utter possibility, and…”

“Kronos,” Milly finished for him.

The word fell from her lips with an odd kind of resonance.  Milly jumped.  Because all at once, a third man was standing in the world-of-the-underground-station—a man with dark hair and a swirling tribal tattoo over half his face, a tattoo that almost…but not quite…succeeded in distracting from the long scar cut over one eye.  But neither the scar nor the tattoo nor the frankly quite horrifying spiked sword he held, resting the tip negligently against the floor and leaning against it as casually as a gentleman from another era might have leaned against a cane, was the most terrifying about him.  The *most* terrifying thing about him was the way he looked at Milly…smiling, knowing, and with a feral, confident hunger that made Milly want to look down and make sure her blouse was still buttoned. Before she could, though, Richie heaved an intense sigh and moved toward the stranger, tapping him disapprovingly on the shoulder.  “Ahem,” he said. “She didn’t mean *you*.” 

The man disappeared.  Richie trotted back to Milly and Sean.  “How do you like that guy?” he said.  “I swear, he’s been more trouble than all the other psychopaths in here combined.  And that’s really saying something.”

Milly’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head.  “Er…was that…?”

“Best not to say it,” Sean Burns interjected quickly.  “Names have great power here, Dr. MacLeod.  Even individual sounds do…which would be why so many of the truly evil amongst us have instinctively chosen to start their names with a hard “K”, in an attempt to manipulate some of the wild power of Kairos.  Only *that* particular gentlemen ever had the arrogance to call himself by the name of an entire realm, however.”  Sean looked disapprovingly to where the scarred man had been.  “I believe he genuinely thought he would eventually be The One, and given dominion over all of Time itself.  Or possibly he just instinctively knew that the name would give him quite an advantage, when he came to join the Second Chorus.”

Milly shook her head, not understanding.  “The Second Chorus?”

“It’s where we Immortals go, when we lose our heads,” Sean answered.  “Or maybe what we become, would be a better way to describe it.  Even after we leave the world of clock-time, we are still a bridge, Mrs. MacLeod.  We are still ourselves, still standing with one foot in two realms—but now those two realms are Kairos and Aionos.  And we no longer stand alone.  Our Quickenings join the Chorus, the one made up of every other Immortal that ever lived.  Living Immortals have always been able to hear it—it’s what that sound we call the “Presence” is made of, the one we hear whenever we come physically close enough to another of our kind.  The living tend to assume that it’s just the hum made by one individual Immortal’s power.  But it’s not.  It’s always a blend, of the living and of us.  Always.”  He cocked his head at her curiously.  “Can’t you hear our music?  It’s all around us, here.” 

And Milly could.  Lovely, nearly indescribable music…unearthly was the only word Milly could use for it.  She thought it must be what the rings of Saturn would sound like, if you could hear them instead of see.  Or the pattern of sunlight and shade always in motion across the moon.  Or maybe even the magnificent spiraling of the Milky Way. 

And then she thought: no, no, it isn’t unearthly at all.  Because Milly could hear, within the music, an infinite number of very earthly familiarities.  Lullabies.  Work songs that had given rhythm to a countless number of different mortal tasks, from shelling peas to rowing boats to chopping wood.  Love songs and loss songs and for-gods’-sake-can’t-we-just-stop-talking-and-fuck-already songs.  Prayers and battle cries and war chants, too.  And Milly, suddenly hearing both the individual notes and the way they blended, abruptly wanted to cry.  *It’s us*, she thought. *It’s all of us, in combination.  Jarring, even ugly separate….but so damned beautiful taken as a whole.  No wonder it seems so alien…*

And then Milly realized something else.  All the notes she was hearing were from the past, yes…but they were from the future, too.  It was like looking at a thousand year old harp in a museum and suddenly hearing every song that had ever been played on it and that ever would be played, all at once.  Which should have been overwhelming.  Cacophonous.  But—it wasn’t.  Milly could hear—no, feel--no, see—no.  None of those senses were what she was using now.  They couldn’t be: all her usual ways of perceiving the world only worked in one direction.  But in some strange, miraculous fashion Milly was experiencing the way each and every sound blended into the others anyway, finding its proper spot within the whole…and she realized that she never would have been able to, if she hadn’t been able to stand outside of it.  Time, time was the critical dimension.  And time the way she’d always known it, having to experience it lock-step, one lonely moment after another—time was the whole reason Milly had never heard this beauty before.  The reason almost no one who lived within Kronos ever had.  Even though the beauty always was and had always been.  And always would be, too… “Aionos,” Milly breathed…and felt her heart swell as the word, her sound, the whole beautiful song of her understanding fell into place as well and expanded the song’s beauty.  “Here it is.  I really am standing where it and Kairos meet.”  She looked at Sean curiously.  “And I’ve been here before, haven’t I?”

“Yes, Dr. MacLeod.  In a dream.”  He smiled.  “Rebecca sends her love, you know.  She wanted to be here, too.  So did many, many others.  But we all agreed that Richie and I would be enough, for now.”

“Rebecca…others…but I know I’m not dreaming now.”  These sentences, too, fell with perfect precision into the music.  There was no fear in Milly’s next words, only wonder.  “Am I dead too, then?”

“No, Dr. MacLeod.  Not at all.  It’s just…well, it’s as Rebecca said, the last time you visited the Chorus.  You are very, very special.”  Sean Burns took her hand, beaming at her in a very affectionate way.  “You see, it really all goes back to Gilgamesh and Ammaletu, the Akkadian…”

“Yes,” Milly interrupted.  “When Ammaletu saw Gilgamesh revive from death, he founded the Watchers.  Jobey told me the story.”

“Yes.”  Sean nodded.  “But what Mr. Dawson didn’t tell you…what he couldn’t possibly know…was just how *important* that moment was.  Can you even imagine how it reshaped the world, Dr. MacLeod? For the first time, there was an entire group of mortals who neither feared that Immortals were demons nor wanted to worship them as gods, but simply wanted to learn about them.  And a new kind of mortal human was born.”  Sean shook his head wonderingly.  “All those years that Ben…pardon me, I mean Methos…spent living amongst Watchers, guiding them subtly, quietly guarding them from harm—he had no idea he was changing the entire future of the human race.  But that’s exactly what was happening.  Watchers generally marry Watchers, you see, and the children of two Watcher parents almost always become Watchers themselves.  And so in a way the Watchers have been like a millennia-old breeding program, constantly selecting and reinforcing specific traits.”

“Traits?”

“Yes,” Sean nodded.  “Some of those traits were genetic—things like a subconscious ability to sense and be attracted toward Immortality, an attraction that appears to be written into every truly gifted Watcher’s DNA.  Other traits were more cultural in nature, but no less important.  Things like a deep love of history.  Tolerance.  Respect for tradition, balanced with knowledge that the traditions you were raised with are not the only valid ones.  The core belief that the strange needn’t be feared simply because it *is* strange…”

Richie snorted.  “Doesn’t sound a lot like most of the Watchers I’ve known, Sean.”

“No.” Sean agreed sadly.  “The Watchers have been poisoned greatly in recent centuries by the Token Bearers, I’m afraid.  But if we go back in time before that…before Kahvin’s death in 1623, before poor Harpist gave the first Watcher access to Kahvin’s prophecies and infected the next several generations with her own fears…that was who and what the Watchers strove to be.  And enough of that legacy remained into the late twentieth century to attract Joe Dawson.” Sean’s sadness abruptly fled.  “And Joe?  Joe is pretty much the entire reason we are here today, Dr. MacLeod.”

“Jobey?” Milly asked.  “But…Jobey’s parents weren’t Watchers.”

“No.  But his grandmother was before she married, not that Mr. Dawson ever knew.  And it’s a strange thing about breeding programs, Mrs. MacLeod.  Sometimes, an animal that’s allowed to cross with one in the wild suddenly produces offspring with all the traits you’ve spent generations selecting for…and acquires one or two even more desirable attributes, in the bargain.  That was Joe Dawson.  Not only was he born with all the characteristics I’ve just described, he came into the world with something even more precious—the ability not simply to tolerate Immortals, but to genuinely see them as ‘people, just like us.’ To love them, unconditionally and without reservation…”

“Is that rare?”  Milly asked, puzzled.

“Oh, yes,” Richie assured her hurriedly.  “It just doesn’t seem that way to you because you’re just as weird as Joe is.”

“Richie is right, although I would have worded it a little differently,” Sean answered, hiding a smile.  “You aren’t ‘weird’, Dr. MacLeod…you are merely exceptional. To you, loving an Immortal whole heartedly is as natural as breathing.  But in the world at large?  Sadly, yes, it’s an ability that’s decidedly uncommon.  It’s cropped up in Watchers from time to time over the centuries, but never as strongly as it did in Joe.”  Sean spread his hands with a flourish.  “And we are very, very fortunate that it did.  Because that unique ability to love…it let Joe do something new.  Something different.  Something that had honestly never happened before, in all of Mortal and Immortal history.

“It allowed him to take some of an Immortal’s Quickening into his own mortal body.”

Milly felt a cold shiver trail down her spine.  Suddenly, she vividly remembered the moment from her dream when she’d seen the light dancing around Duncan’s fingers, moving toward her heart.  “I was going to do that, too.  With Duncan.”

“No, Milly, you already have,” Richie said earnestly.  “The moment you and Mac started…er…” He suddenly turned beet red—Milly was sure she had, too—and looked at Sean appealingly.  “Sean?  Help me out?”

“Sexual intimacy does indeed seem to be the catalyst for this kind of sharing, Dr. MacLeod,” Sean Burns finished calmly.  “But only when it is combined with great love.  Duncan did indeed share some of his Quickening with you in that manner, before you left the island.” 

“But that’s supposed to be impossible,” Milly said, remembering the fear with which all the others had jumped to prevent her from touching Cassandra’s Quickening in the cave.  “Dr. Navarro-Tokalov said so.  She said that it was death for a mortal to come in contact with an Immortal’s Quickening.  She said that everyone knew.”

“Just as with most things that ‘everyone knows’, I think you’ll find that there are always exceptions,” Sean answered.  “But Dr. Navarro-Tokalov really can’t be blamed for not knowing about those exceptions, Dr. MacLeod.  In all of history so far, there are have only been three.  And you are one of those three.” He started counting on his fingers.  “Your ability to accept an Immortal’s Quickening into your body wasn’t learned; it was something you came into the world with on your own. The potential for it was encoded deep within your DNA.  And that made you special…special enough to change the course of your entire life.  It’s a well-known phenomenon that Pre-Immortals almost magically stumble across the Immortals best able to serve as their Teachers.  I believe in the future, Immortals and the mortals best able to love and merge with them will find themselves irresistibly drawn together, too.  In another words: it wasn’t pure chance that led Methos to take that job at UNM.  Or that caused him and Joe to buy the very house next to yours.  Something deep inside you was calling out to them both.” 

A fresh rush of tears came to Milly’s eyes, sending the music in the room swelling with another beautiful crescendo.  Yes, she had. She really, really had… Sean suddenly looked a good deal less happy.  “Of course, there were consequences to Methos and Joe answering that call,” he said sadly. “For someone with your genetic code, simply living in such close proximity to Methos—an Immortal of incredible age and strength, whose Quickening, thanks to Duncan MacLeod, was unbalanced enough to no longer be fully attached to his body—caused some serious changes.  It’s no accident that you and Joe both developed serious cancers at relatively young ages, I’m afraid.  The very foundations of your DNA were being rewritten by Methos’s Quickening.  It almost inevitable that some of your cells would get confused about what was their proper time to die, and become cancerous.  It was also inevitable that you would eventually find yourself unable to have children, even if your cancer hadn’t manifested the way it had.  Joe can’t either, although he could when he was still a young man.  Before he began spending time with Methos.”

“Jobey’s infertile, too?”    

Sean nodded.  “I’m afraid so.  Neither you nor Joe will ever be Immortal, Dr. MacLeod. But time no longer beats in your bodies in quite the mortal way, either.  Your cells simply can’t keep track of time well enough to follow the rhythm that allows most mortal women to produce a fertile ova, or a man to produce viable sperm.  And so neither you nor Joe can have children.  Which is a heavy price to pay for love, indeed.”  Sean looked angry for a moment longer, then smiled brilliantly.   “However.  Those changes are also what made you what you are.  Not just a woman capable of taking one Immortal’s Quickening into her being, but of doing much, much more.  And that, combined with you simply being yourself, what you were already always going to be—that is going to change everything, Milly.  It really, truly, is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re going to be able to share Mac’s memories, Milly,” Richie said earnestly.  “You’ve already started, actually.  It’s how you knew what he and Methos were saying when they were speaking Gaelic underground in New Camelot.  And not just Mac’s either.  You’re going to be able to get through his shields to access the memory of every Immortal he’s ever taken.”  He nodded positively.  “That’s how you’re able to talk to Sean and me now.  Because both of our Quickenings are already a small part of you.”

She smiled at him fondly.  “Yes, well,” she said.  “You seem like a pretty lively memory, Richie.  I think there’s a little more to you than just that.”

“Because we’re *here*,” Sean interjected.  “We *are* still alive in the Second Chorus, though it’s a different kind of life than you can imagine.  I think you will one day be able to visit us here whenever you wish, Dr. MacLeod; be able to step back and forth between the three realms at will.  It’s a skill more than one mortal has mastered in the past, and I see no reason why you shouldn’t be one of them.  However.  For now, you still belong to the world of clock-time.  The majority of your life needs to be lived in it.  And there, Richie and I really are nothing but memories.  There, our time is truly done.”  He leaned toward her seriously.  “Nonetheless, it is important—absolutely *vital*--for the future of the world that at least a few mortals within the world of clock-time are able to access our memories, dead and static as they are.  And not just the memories of the Immortals Duncan MacLeod has taken, either.  *All of us*.  Every Immortal that has ever lived.  The whole of the Second Chorus.” 

Milly eyed Sean skeptically.  “’Every Immortal that has ever lived’,” she repeated doubtfully.  “Sean, that’s impossible.  I mean, I understand how I might be able to take on the memories of the Immortals Duncan has killed.  They are a part of him, and he is becoming a part of me.  But what about all the ones who fell to someone else?”

“Oh, that’s like Sean said earlier,” Richie answered easily.  “Even after we die, Immortals are still a bridge, Milly.  We still stand with a foot in two worlds.  And in Aionos…all of our feet happen to rest in exactly the same place.  We all make up the Second Chorus together.  Not just those of us who happened to fall to Mac. *All* of us.  Every single Immortal whoever surrendered himself fully to the Tide.  We all end up here.”

“Then what about the ones who never completely surrendered?” Milly asked.  “And what about all the ones who fell to mortals, with no other Immortal nearby?”  A strain of dark, painful melancholy rose up from her heart, tinging the melody of the Song.  “I know just how much pain Duncan still carries over Darius’s death.  How badly he grieves his loss.”

But Sean was shaking his head.  “Darius wasn’t lost, Dr. MacLeod,” he said softly.  “He’s just been waiting.  As has every other Immortal who ever failed to join the Second Chorus.  They’ve all been waiting for today.”

“But—“

“The Quickenings of other Immortal beings are not the only places in your world where Kairos can be found.  They are not the only safe havens where our energy can rest,” Sean explained.  “The earth is *full* of Kairos, Dr. MacLeod.  Lines of it crisscross the world like a spider web, connecting all the Holy places on earth.   Those Immortals who had no new Immortal body to cling to when they lost their heads simply traveled those lines instead.  In fact, they even created new ones, weaving the web of Kairos ever more deeply into the fabric of that world.”  He leaned toward her earnestly.  “It’s a bit like the Song.  Acts that seem like senseless tragedies suddenly make sense, simply become another vital, beautiful note in the melody, when you are suddenly able to step out of clock-time and hear the whole.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sean means,” Richie explained, “That every Immortal who ever lost his Quickening in the earth actually served a purpose, Milly.  They all added their energy to the web, made it stronger.  There’s been a Third Chorus all along, under your feet, building in strength.  Getting ready for this day.  And now that we’re finally here…”  His eyes shone.  “Thanks to Cassandra, we will finally be reunited.”

“Cassandra?”

“Cassandra knew what she was doing, Dr. MacLeod,” Sean agreed.  “She knew that taking her own head at that time, in that place, would widen the tear of time’s fabric, would open a doorway straight to the place where the Second Chorus dwells.  That’s the other reason why we’ve been able to speak to you here, while you are still awake.  The rip is not a disaster; it’s a door.  A door to *us*.  We were able to reach out to you through it.”  He smiled joyfully.  “And through it, all three Choruses can finally connect at last.”

“’Willingness will open the door,’” Milly quoted.  “Kahvin the Holy had it right, after all.  But Sean…even if the choruses *do* connect somehow, and I am able to take on all those memories without going insane…”

“You won’t be driven insane, Milly.  Neither will Joe.  He’s going to be able to do it, too.”

 “Jobey, maybe,” Milly answered positively.  “He’s so close to Methos, it really is like they are two halves of the same person, practically sharing one memory already.  If any human being on earth could do what you’re suggesting, it would be him.  But me?”  Milly gestured desperately at the cave, the underground room, the swelling tide of sound.  “I haven’t done much more than catch a few stray tendrils of Duncan’s memory yet.  How on earth am I supposed to take *all* of them?  Without going mad?”

Richie gave her a beautiful smile.  “Oh, that’s where the ‘you’re very special’ part comes in.”

“Richie is right, Dr. MacLeod,” Sean agreed.  “It’s not just your ability to absorb Immortal Quickening energy that will make this great thing possible.  It’s *everything* about who you are.”  He suddenly knelt down in front of her.  “Milly, when you find yourself faced by a whirling cyclone of old Immortal memories—you’re going to do what you always do, whenever you are faced by a large amount of data you don’t quite understand.  You’re not going to go insane. You’re going to build yourself a map.”

“Oh-“

\--was what Milly said.  In her heart, though, she felt a sudden flowering of warmth, as powerful and all-encompassing as the one she’d felt the first time Duncan MacLeod had kissed her.  *Yes,* whispered her heart.  *Yes, I can do that.*

And *Yes!* sang out the chorus, joining with the song of her heart in joyous harmony.  For a moment Milly just let her being dance with it, even as her mind already began to tackle the problem—just how *would* one build a map of memories, after all?  Then her previous doubt returned, one that waved through the song like a percussive crash of a drum.  “But Sean…Cassandra’s doorway is unstable.  The Watchers say the tear she  opened has grown almost 300% just since they’ve been observing it.  And it may be causing earthquakes.  If it stays open…”

“It just needs to be stabilized, Dr. MacLeod.”

“And how on earth do we accomplish that?”

“With willingness.  Or as Cassandra herself said, with the last word she ever spoke on earth:  with love.”  There was a hint of tears in Sean’s blue eyes.  “Love is the most powerful magic of all.  By its very nature, it build bridges between all the layers of time.  And reinforces them too, makes them stronger. It’s no accident,” he continued quietly, “That the final handful of people Kahvin foresaw standing at the End of Time all love each other so deeply, even though a few of you have yet to truly realize the nature of your bond.  The six of you need each other; you mesh, you balance.  You stabilize the fabric just by being.”  Sean Burns rocked backward onto his heels.  “You are the foundation that makes it possible for just one more great act of love and sacrifice to build Cassandra’s door into a *permanent* bridge.  To us.” 

Milly’s heart sank. “Then Primrose wasn’t just being her typical crazy, megalomaniac self,” she said, and listened as faint melody of melancholy wove itself into the Song along with her words.  “One more willing sacrifice really is required.”

“Yes,” Sean answered.  “But Milly—hear me now.  *That sacrifice cannot be Duncan MacLeod’s*.  You must stop him from entering the portal at all costs.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper as began to tell her just what she had to do. 

And as the music swelled into a heartbreaking crescendo, Milly finally began to really understand….

***

“Methos?” Duncan said.  Hopefully.

*Wait a minute,* Milly thought to herself.  *This is wrong.  I’ve already seen this part.* 

She was back in the cave again, standing by while Methos stood gazing up at the walls with his hands clenched, refusing to acknowledge the Highlander at all.  Sean…Milly’s mind stuttered a little as she recalled, and realized that she had, in fact, just come back from having a very lengthy conversation with an Immortal who’d died before she was born…had said that this might happen.  Apparently, re-entering the world of Kronos at the exact moment one had left it was something that took skill.  And given that it was a skill only a bare handful of people in human history had ever learned before, Milly could be forgiven for not getting it quite right the first time.  Sean had told her that even if she did manage to ‘stick her landing’ perfectly, there might be some discomfort to be endured; it was hard for a mind and soul that had touched eternity to truly get used to living within the realm of clock-time again.  Milly might well experience what felt like an out-of-body experience, or at the very least a small period of paralysis; and if she did, she wasn’t to panic.  It was just the normal sensation of her soul re-meshing with her body after its short vacation, and would pass off soon enough…

Milly hadn’t been prepared for this, though.  She *could* still feel her body, could feel the cave floor through the soles of her feet, and could see, smell, feel and hear everything around her.  It was just that there seemed to be a layer of cotton wool laid between her body and the rest of the world, one that muffled her impulses and made it impossible for her to move.  All she could do was stand there, watching helplessly, as Jobey moved toward Methos, clearly attempting to intervene; all she could do was watch as Duncan shook his head, stopping the old mortal with a gentle touch.  “No, it’s okay, Joe,” he said softly.  “Methos turned his back on me the last time I asked him to help me die, too.  Which was only fair.  Given the number of times he knelt at my feet and I refused to do the same.”

*Well,* Milly thought.  *At least it’s not just our undead friends who understand the symmetry of this moment.  I think Sean will be proud.  But what’s wrong with me?  Why can’t I MOVE?*  She attempted to shuffle her feet, to raise her hands, to make some small sound.  Nothing happened.  She ended up simply watching and listening as Duncan raised his voice.  “Methos,” he said.  “I’m not going to ask you to understand, or give your blessing, or even watch.  That’s not who *you* are.  But I do need you to promise me one thing.”  He jerked his chin back toward where Milly was waiting.  “Look after her.  All right?”

“Look after whom, MacLeod?”  Methos’s words were gravelly, heavy with a pain Milly could only barely begin to understand.  “My not-daughter, you mean?”

Duncan physically flinched.  But he answered calmly.  “No.  I mean your *Milly*,” he said simply.

And that was enough that Methos finally turned around.  First just his head, craning on his neck, eyes narrowed suspiciously.  Then as Duncan stood still, simply letting Methos take in the sincerity in his expression, the old, old Immortal gave a soft nod and turned around.  Methos joined the other two men, let Jobey wrap an arm around his waist.  “With my life, Highlander,” he promised solemnly.  And then let his face crumble, as thoroughly as a child who could hold back tears no longer.  “Ah, fuck, Mac,” he said helplessly.  “*Fuck*.” 

Duncan’s hands clenched and unclenched.  Milly suspected that he badly wanted to take Alex in his arms, but didn’t think he could.  He made do with a watery smile.  “Where’s all your vaunted eloquence gone, Methos?” he said.  “Surely you can come up with a better last word for me than that.”

“You know, I don’t really think I can?” Alex said hoarsely.  “This is wrong, Highlander.  I can’t tell you why, but every fiber of my being is screaming at me that it is.  But even if that weren’t true…and there really was some reason…” He shook his head helplessly.  “God damn you to hell, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.  You and I don’t balance; we collide.  Your very Presence in a room affects me like the proverbial fingernail drawn across a chalkboard.  And you manage to annoy me with almost every word you say.  But…you are a fucking *part* of me now.”   Tears had started streaming down his face.  “I can’t…I can’t lose…”

And Duncan finally reached for him.  Grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him in close, until their foreheads were touching.  “You can, you know,” he said in a choked whisper, his fierce up-and-down nods transferring to Alex in what would have been a comical way under any other circumstance.  “It’s not like it was when we first met, Methos. You’re more than strong enough to go on without me.  Now.” 

And Alex drew in a huge, painful breath, and he nodded under his own power, clutching the Highlander to him just as fiercely.  “Fine, then,” he said.  “If you truly must…”  He kissed the side of Duncan’s head ferociously, gracelessly, lips brushing the hair over Duncan’s ear—Duncan looked startled, but then very, very pleased-- “…you must.  And I can let you go,” he concluded.  “But only under protest, Highlander.  Only under protest.”

Duncan bit down on his lip, like he was trying to hold back a laugh.  “Duly noted, Methos.” 

He took a step back.  Alex did too, instantly assuming a place within Joe’s encircling arm and wrapping his arm around Jobey’s waist in return.  After a moment, Amanda crossed the room to join them, joining the hug around Jobey’s free side.  Duncan looked at them all fondly, then finally at Milly.  A shadow of doubt crossed his face.  “Milly…?”

What was the worst part, Milly wondered?  The fact that she couldn’t move, couldn’t cross the floor to her beloved’s side?  Or the way that that cotton-wool surrounding her body insisted on dulling her senses, especially her hearing? Both Duncan and Jobey’s beautiful voices had become strangely distorted, as if she was hearing them from underwater.  Maybe that was natural, after having spent a few moments out of time; maybe this was what being in realm of Kronos always sounded like, and Milly’s senses only seemed dull because she was remembering the magical clarity of The Chorus.  Although Sean and Richie had been right.  The Second Chorus *was* already present in the world of Kronos.  She could hear its united voice singing through both Alex and Duncan, and blending its power with their own.  She could hear it singing from Cassandra’s time-tear, too, although there was still something very wrong there—something missing, something incomplete.  Milly frowned, trying to understand just what that missing harmony really was…

And then she knew. 

She knew.

And the cotton wool around her turned to glass, and that glass shattered and broke, granting Milly the power of movement once more.  She was part of the so-called “real” world once again.  And not a moment too soon.  Because Duncan could only see one solution to their problems…AND IT WAS THE WRONG ONE.  Alex had given in.  Jobey at least knew it was wrong, which was good, because of all the people in the cave, only Jobey really had the power to fix it.  But he couldn’t see how …only Milly could.  How to tell him, how to let him know without Primrose or the other Watchers catching on?  Milly worked her mouth for a moment, trying to moisten her throat enough to speak.  When she did, her voice sounded harsh and cracked, as if from long disuse.  “Jobey.”

“Yes, sweetheart? What is it?”

“Your last words to Duncan,” Milly answered.  “They shouldn’t be spoken.  They need to be *sung*.”  Joe frowned at her.  Milly put everything she had into her eyes, willing him to see her need for this.  “Please, Jobey.  *Please*.”

Primrose stared at her.  Amanda stared at her, as did Duncan and Jobey.  Methos stared at her too, his head cocked, an almost angry look of incredulity in his eyes…and then suddenly he blinked.  “Yes,” he said, in the quiet, awed tone of someone who has just made a great discovery.  “Yes.  I think that would be appropriate.  Very appropriate indeed, Pix.”  Methos turned around, his old black coat whirling around him and falling expertly into place as he once again took up his spot behind Jobey.   “I’ll even start you off.”  And Alex began to sing:

“When the night has come  
And the land is dark  
And the moon is the only light we'll see…”

Duncan shivered.  Milly, her heart one with his in a way that, she now knew, was not fanciful romantic nonsense at all, but pure, hard fact, felt the pain hearing that particular song caused him…felt all the hurt of a reality that hadn’t really happened, but had felt very real to Duncan, just the same.  The strangest picture of a much younger Jobey in a wheelchair, dressed in the dirty ripped clothes of a street beggar, flickered through Milly’s mind.  But it fled a second later.  Because Jobey, clearly confused, but still perfectly willing to follow his husband wherever he led, be it into life or death something as seemingly inconsequential as an old 1960’s pop tune, lifted up his voice as well. 

And that made all the difference.

“No, I won't be afraid  
Oh, I won't be afraid  
Just as long as you stand, stand by me.  
So darling, darling...”

Methos’s voice was surprisingly good, tuneful and light.  It harmonized with Jobey’s with all the beautiful effortlessness of long practice and even longer love.  But Jobey’s voice…ah, Jobey’s voice was the true musician’s instrument, the one with power to reach every dark corner of the cave.  As Jobey reached the crescendo of the chorus and headed into the second verse, his magnificent blues man’s voice began to echo from every stone…

“If the sky that we look upon  
Should tumble and fall  
Or the mountain   
Should crumble to the sea...”

No.  Joe’s voice wasn’t just echoing off the stone.  It was sinking into it, too.  Into the floor, into the ceiling, into the ancient stalactites and stalagmites.  Even the pebbles strewn over the floor began to vibrate, picking up the sound and magnifying it a hundred times.  Milly heard it, felt the energy vibrate through her from sternum to spine.  And almost without conscious volition, she began to sing along. 

For a moment she attempted to follow Alex in harmonizing with Jobey.  She realized after only two notes that this wasn’t right.  Harmonizing with Jobey was Alex’s place in the song, not hers.  So she dropped her voice and began to do her best to sing the part of Jobey’s guitar, just like she’d done long ago as a little girl in the passenger seat of Jobey’s car, accompanying the musician on trips to the grocery store or to the University to pick up Alex.  Her improvisation sounded ridiculously stupid to her own hears, something like “La-da-dum-dum. La-da-dum-dum,” sung over and over again. But it blended in anyway, and the power was that gathering in the cave seemed to double-no, triple—as a result.  From the soft, approving look Methos suddenly threw her, Milly knew he could feel it, too.  He nodded at her, then threw one of his infamous glares Duncan’s way, making a beckoning motion with his hands… a sort of *Well, Highlander?  What are you waiting for?  An engraved invitation?* type of gesture. Duncan looked startled, but he began to sing, too. 

With Milly.

She felt the *rightness* of it as his voice joined hers, the two of them creating an accompaniment that complimented Jobey and Alex’s melody perfectly but didn’t get lost in it at all.  “I won't cry, I won't cry, no, I won't shed a tear,” sang her two fathers, and Milly reflected that never had a song lyric been simultaneously more right and more wrong at the exact same time.  *She* was crying like a baby, tears running in steady torrents over both of her cheeks, and knew without looking that Duncan was, as well.  And yet Milly was also happier than she’d ever been, completely fearless and at peace…a feeling that simply increased when Amanda, looking extremely startled, suddenly stepped forward and began to sing as well.  Mezo-soprano, strong and breathtakingly pure, for a moment Amanda’s voice attempted to join Milly and Duncan’s, just as Milly had tried to join Methos and Jobey’s.   But in even less time than it had taken Milly to realize that that couldn’t work, Amanda caught herself, and soared out on her own…creating something that sounded a lot like the symphonic arrangement of the strings in Ben E. King’s original masterpiece.  It elevated the whole song, lifted it to brand new heights...

But even as it did, Milly could feel the loneliness.  Because Amanda’s part of the song, too, was meant to be a duet.  And the fact that it wasn’t….that there was a sixth voice that was missing…quickly became an unendurable pain to Milly, one that struck her right to her core.  Jobey faltered for just the barest of seconds.  Milly and Alex and Duncan all did, too.  *Six*, Milly thought suddenly.  *The prophecy said there were supposed to be six of us.  Amanda was supposed to have a beloved here, as well.*  And for the first time in her life, felt a surge of rage so cold and cruel—directly targeted at Primrose, for daring to take Amanda’s Nick--that Milly could have honestly killed another human being in cold blood, exactly where she stood.  Not even Brian Smith or the poor, deluded kid who had shot three of her classmates in 2021 had ever moved her to such anger…

But even as the rest of them faltered, Amanda’s voice carried on, strong as a mountain, though the note of pain and loneliness it carried could have shattered glass.  “…stand by me…?”her voice caroled out, seeming to hang in midair, the question beneath the music asking itself over and over again as it echoed around the cave.  * _Is there anyone out there for me?  Or am I truly as alone as I have always feared?*_ And Milly was on the verge of going to her—going to her, and taking her in her arms.  Because even though Milly knew that *she* wasn’t the answer to Amanda’s question, she had asked the same thing herself so many, many times in the bleak eternity before Duncan that just the fact of the asking made them sisters. And when faced with that kind of desolate isolation, even sisterly love was better than nothing… 

But then Maria Navarro-Tokalov suddenly stepped away from the Watchers who were guarding her.  She completely ignored the barrels of the guns that followed her, she was so intent upon staring at Jobey and Methos.  “Voltaire,” she said, too quietly for anyone but Milly to overhear.  “’Anything too stupid to be said is sung’.  And love is the stupidest thing of all.  You two were the ones to teach me that, all those years ago.  Dios mio…”  And she, too, lifted up her voice.

It blended with Amanda’s as effortlessly as if they had spent their entire lifetimes singing together, in just this way.

At least for a few moments.  Amanda’s voice choked abruptly off, eyes bugging out of her head as she stared at the dark haired, middle-aged woman…who just looked solemnly, unblinkingly back.  But by then Milly and Duncan and Alex and Jobey had already resumed.  And all six voices had blended together in a triumphant wave of pure exultation that swept through the air, swept through their bodies, swept into the very atoms of the rocky cave itself…

And the earth began to tremble under their feet.

***

The earthquake lasted some three or four minutes, altogether.  Long enough for almost all of the assembled Watchers to scatter and break, retreating to the antechamber, where, Milly assumed, they attempted—and possibly even succeeded--at climbing the waiting ropes to the outside world.   Primrose remained, of course, hands on her hips and feet spread far apart, glaring at the walls as if personally daring them to come down upon her.  Maria Navarro-Tokalov remained as well, her eyes locked with Amanda’s, so intent upon the Immortal woman and the Immortal woman so intent upon her that Milly doubted they noticed the heaving floor at all.  And Duncan MacLeod abandoned his place near Jobey and Methos to come to Milly—running over the shaking, pebbled floor and lunging toward her desperately.  He swept her off her feet and into a painful, rolling fall just before a stalactite came crashing down behind her. 

Dust filled Milly’s lungs.  Even after Duncan had rolled off her—the blasted man *was* amazingly heavy, darn it—all Milly could do was blink stupidly for a minute.  At the very odd sight of Methos and Jobey standing exactly where they had been all along.  Methos had his arms wrapped around his husband’s shoulders, his front pressed to Jobey’s back; he looked both awed and shaken.  “Very heroic, MacLeod,” he said unsteadily, with none of his usual sarcastic bite.  “A move worthy of any romantic action hero of the stage or screen.  But you might have saved your bride a few bruises, I think.  That stalactite wouldn’t have hit her.  It wouldn’t have dared.  Not here.  Not now.  Look.” He nodded at the patch of ground just beneath the time-tear. 

Milly looked.  And saw water. Where a moment before, only bare stone had been.

It was *beautiful*.  Oval and shining, about the same size as a small lap pool in a hotel, the pool glowed with an unearthly radiance, casting its own unique glow into the room already lit so strangely by the time-tear.  Some of the same colors that shimmered within the rift seemed to swirl within its depths, and for a moment Milly thought the water was reflecting it…but no.  Whatever the reasons, the pool was casting its own light, and it was soft and magical and lovely beyond words. Gently, Alex detangled himself from Joe and moved slowly toward it, steps slow and reverent.   After one last double check to make sure that Milly was all right, Duncan left her to slowly do the same, a look of terrible longing and disbelief on his face.   “Methos,” he said wonderingly.  “It’s…it’s Her.  The Lady.”

“I know.”  Methos dropped to his knees at the pool’s edge.  He started to reach one hand out to touch the waters, then thought the better of it and roughly scrubbed his fingers against his sweatshirt.  It was such a childlike moment—reminding her of a three-year-old making a preemptory attempt to scrub jelly off his fingertips before he touched Mom’s good skirt—that Milly almost smiled…and wondered how effective such a cleansing could actually be.  But it seemed to be enough.  Because when Methos reached forward again, laying his fingers so lightly upon the surface of the pool that Milly doubted they even got wet, the pond’s light brightened and danced as if some spirit inside was very pleased.  Milly had the strangest feeling that she even heard a trill of light, feminine laughter, dancing just beyond the range of normal hearing.  “She’s here.  She’s really here,” Alex said.  “And I would give a lot to understand why.”  He raised his head suddenly, eyes going very wide.  “Mac.  Amanda.  Do you hear--?”

Amanda gave a little exclamation, clutching herself above the elbows.  Duncan stared around the cave.  “Holy Ground,” he said.  “This place is Holy Ground once again.  But how…?”

“Because your bride had it right all along, Highlander,” a gentle voice said.  It was as warm and reassuring as the first touch of spring sunshine after a long, harsh winter.  “Any place that Joe Dawson sings really does become Holy Ground.  A different kind than you are used to, of course; I doubt any of you were ever able to hear its song clearly.  Nonetheless, you all respected it—which would explain why none of you ever quite dared to take a head in either of Joe’s bars, despite being the Immortal trouble magnets they most undeniably were.  And it also explains why now, with the power of a song sung by all six of you, at this time and in its place…” The voice softened, became resonant with power and gratitude and grace, like a priest performing a benediction. “This sacred place is holy once again.”

Milly turned around.

Cassie was standing just a dozen or so feet behind them, one hand braced against a particularly tall stalagmite.  But it wasn’t the Cassie Milly had met in New Camelot.  This Cassie was little more than a girl, eighteen or nineteen years old at the most—lithe of figure and smooth of face, with long red hair worn demurely in two braids.  She was barefoot, but dressed in a long white robe that seemed to cloak her figure in angelic dignity; Milly was reminded of the pictures she’d seen of young girls in Sweden, dressed up for St. Lucia Day.  Cassie was missing the traditional wreath of candles in her hair, but she didn’t seem to need them—as always, she radiated her very own light.  Methos let out a startled cry and started to go to her, stumbling over a fallen rock in his eagerness to get to her side.  Cassie held up her hand.  “Best not, Johnboy,” she said softly.  “I’m coping with a bit more than just a few broken bones, now.”

He froze in mid-stride, hands flexing and clenching uselessly at his sides.  “Cassie,” he said.  “You…you’re young.”

“Yes, Johnboy.  Just a little bit older than I was when we first met.  Exactly the same age I was that I was when I first met my Sandy, in the airport in Bordeaux.”  Cassie shrugged gracefully.  “Truth be told, I never aged a day after that, not in my soul.  And my since soul is pretty much the only thing left of me, it seemed silly to appear in any other way…” 

Methos’s jaw dropped.  His eyes swept over Cassie’s form incredulously.  “They told us you were dead,” he said.  “That your heart had stopped under the influence of the Tritaxmatazine.”

“Yes.”  Cassie nodded, crossing her hands serenely over her chest.  “So it did, Johnboy.  As I had always known it would.” 

 “Then—how--“

“For the same reasons that your beautiful, watery lady friend over there found herself able to reappear.  Because of love, Johnboy.  Because of love.”  Cassie’s smile was heartbreaking, sadness and sweetness beautifully…and terribly…combined.  “You aren’t the only Immortal in history to have shared your Quickening with a mortal beloved, you know.  The first, yes, but hardly the last.  Sandra shared hers with me many, many a year ago.”  Her eyes flickered longingly to the shimmering time tear, then back to Methos’s.   “Just like your own beloved, it wasn’t enough to give me an Immortal body.  Not enough to stop my aging, or enough to let my poor heart heal and restart.  But enough, when combined with a few of my own uniquenesses, to give me something like a Quickening of my own.  My spirit, my passion, my memories, my strength…that’s what you are seeing before you now, Johnboy.  The moment my heart stopped they left my body behind and became a tide of pure Kairos, one that grounded itself in the earth.  Just the same way an Immortal who has lost her head with no other Immortal near enough to carry her would do.  And now…”

The Holy Spring pulsed suddenly, sending a great wave of greenish light rippling over the cave floor.  Cassie looked at it reverently.  “And now *this* place, this sacred cave, is Holy once again,” she said.  “It’s filled again with Kairos, thanks to the magic of Joe’s voice and the love of all of you.  For which I owe you all an enormous debt.  Because if the six of you had not sung together—if you had not summoned the Kairos up out of the stones, and connected this cave once again into the world’s web of holy places--there would have been no connection for me to follow.  I would never have been able to find my way here.”  She took a few slow steps forward.  “And I would have missed out on the most important part of my death.”

“Cassie, no!”  Methos shouted.  He shot an agonized look over his shoulder to where the time-tear was still hanging in mid-air.   “No, Cassie, please.  You can’t.  I know…I know how tempting it must be to try and join her. I can only imagine how I would feel in your place…” He looked at Joe and went wordless.  Then his resolve seemed to strengthen.  “But Sandra is dead, Cassie.  More than that—she’s been trapped out of time.  Lost.  And if you try to join her, that’s what you will be, too.”  His voice faltered.  “I don’t—I don’t think I can bear…”

But the girl was shaking her head.  “Foolish Johnboy,” she said.  “You still don’t understand.  After today?  None of us will ever be lost again.”  She began walking amongst them, a look of great amusement on her face as she passed each of them in turn.  “Love,” she said.  “There’s a reason it was the last word my Sandra ever spoke upon this earth.  It really *is* the greatest magic in the universe, you know.  The greatest force for good.  Where evil always seeks to isolate, love always seeks to bring together…and there’s so very, very much of it here in this room.  And in so many different forms!”  She smiled at Amanda and Maria.  “Love that is first starting, like a baby taking its first steps, miraculous and unsure,” she said.  Maria and Amanda both blushed.  Cassie turned to Milly and Duncan.  “Love that has grown into its young adulthood—love that is still finding itself, love that has plenty of mistakes to make, but love that still knows itself for what it is and knows it will survive.”  She turned to Jobey and Methos.  “Mature, ripened love, love that has stood the test of time and knows it will endure even through death.”  She looked at Primrose, her face pitying.  “Even thwarted love….love that honestly *would* have given its all, but was not allowed…”

Primrose snarled at her like a wounded cat.  “What do you know of that, witch?”

“Oh, Magdalene,” Cassie said softly, and with a shock Milly realized that she must be calling Primrose by her real name, not the name of her long-dead lover.  “I carry the memory of the entire world—do you really think you can hide from me?  I know that you, too, carry the gene that would have allowed you to take an Immortal’s Quickening into your own flesh.  You, too, could have been standing here with your beloved, if she’d but trusted you enough to share that final intimacy.  It’s not your fault that she was too broken by the world to ever allow it; not your fault that her soul simply hurt too much for her to ever let you touch it with your own.  But.”  And Cassie smiled, the most beautiful smile Milly had ever seen on a human being.  “This is love we are talking about.  And with love, nothing is ever truly at an end.”  She turned her head, meeting Milly’s eyes.  “Be ready, Millicent Gabriella Carolita Dido Alphonso MacLeod,” she whispered.  And suddenly she was running, gracefully as a gazelle, toward the rift.  She dove in, head first.

The earth began to heave again.

Dimly, Milly was conscious of yet another stalactite falling somewhere to the left of her, of Duncan shouting her name.  She couldn’t look at him.  Her eyes were locked on the time-tear.  It seemed to her that, as Cassie’s body left the ground and dived into the rift, Milly could see the ghostly suggestion of a taller female form shape itself from the time-light and reach out to her, helping her through.  But it was only there for a moment.  As Cassie’s body disappeared, the tear seemed to collapse in onto itself.  It pulled in all its jagged corners and edges until it suddenly bloomed outward and became a perfect circle---a circle as seamless and unmoving as mirror, perfectly reflecting the cave around it.  So for a moment…and then that perfect surface too began to shatter, first breaking along just a single crack, then developing more and more lines like a web as the crack began to crawl beyond the circle, into the space of cave. “Willingness,” Milly said softly to herself, seeing her own wild-haired and even wilder-eyed reflection split asunder by the crack.  “Only willingness can open the door.  And only willingness can build that door into a bridge.”  She began to laugh. 

“Milly?” Duncan appeared at her side, panting heavily and more than a little wild eyed-himself; he’d been helping Maria and Amanda, who had found themselves toppled by the most recent quake.  He looked into the mirror, shuddered visibly, and looked away.  “Milly, the time-cracks are spreading,” he said.  “We’ve got to get out of here, before they bring down the cave walls…”

“No,” Milly said, and kissed him passionately.

The ground quaked a final time.

The Lady of the Spring laughed joyfully and danced with it, waters rising in a flood, swirling and glowing around Milly’s feet.

The time-tear (“Portal,” Milly thought, “I tried to tell them…”) cracked to very edges of the cave and exploded, filling the world with a brilliant pulse of blinding light.

And suddenly there were a countless number of voices in Milly’s mind, all singing out with unfathomable joy.


	14. Don’t go back to sleep.

It was like…

No.  There were no words for what it was like.  Having the entire memories…the entire souls…of every Immortal being who ever lived (plus one very, very strange mortal woman) suddenly poured into her brain at once was an experience unlike any other.  No one living had ever experienced it before, so how could there be words?  Oh, Cassie…that very, very strange mortal herself…had once experienced something similar, when her pubescent brain had finally developed enough to realize she was an “I” instead of a “we”, and what remained of her essence tried to help Milly out the best she could.  But Cassie had only ever done the process in reverse—been a being of infinite memory suddenly realizing it had a single mortal body, rather than being a single mortal body suddenly realizing her memories had become, if not quite infinite, than still unfathomably large.  And thus she could only soften the blow a little, mainly by reassuring Milly that it *was* possible to contain all that information in a single human mind, that she wouldn’t be driven mad as she feared.  Nonetheless, Milly was rocked to her very core.  And as the tide of Immortal feelings and thoughts crashed into her again and again and again, she began to feel herself go under them.  In another moment she would break…

“Nuh-uh, Sprout.  That’s quite enough of that.”

Jobey.  Milly felt a strong hand closing on her shoulder.  It felt exactly like the time she’d lost her balance walking along the top of a neighbor’s fence as a little girl, and would have fallen if it hadn’t been for Jobey’s quick, steadying hand.  A second later Milly was in a room she recognized as being Jobey’s cyber music studio.  Not a real place at all.  And yet, for that moment, it was more than real enough; the peaceful quiet of the studio surrounded her, acting as a total balm to her battered spirit.  “Thank you,” Milly said gratefully, sinking into a tired heap onto the floor.  “But how did you…”

Jobey shrugged.  “Don’t know,” he said.  “Except that I’ve been sharing Methos’s memories for years, so I imagine I have a bit more practice than you have at not being overwhelmed.  It helps to keep a corner of your mind to yourself, completely private.  That’s what my studio has always been for me out in the real world, and I guess it works the same way now that we’re…here.”  He raised his eyebrows curiously at Milly, concerned, but not afraid.  “Uh, Sprout.  Would you happen to know where ‘here’ is, exactly?”

She dimpled.  “That is one of the few things I do know,” she said.  “We’re in Kairos, Jobey.  The second realm of time.  The world of pure magic and possibility.”

“Uh-huh.”  Jobey looked around himself.  “That’s all very well and good, Sprout.  I told Methos this was a place I’d always wanted to visit, back when he first mentioned it to me.  But is there any way to get back?”

“Yes.”  Milly nodded positively.  “We can go back any time we want, Jobey.  Sandra…her love opened the door.  And Cassie’s love stabilized it.  But you and I, Jobey? We’re the bridges.  The ones who will keep that door open and really connect the two worlds.”  Tears came to her eyes.  “It had to be us, you see.  Our Immortal lovers…they changed us, made it possible for us to experience pure Kairos without dying.  But we are still mortal.  We will always be mortal.  And so we will always be rooted in Kronos, in a way that our Immortal loves simply can’t be.  We will keep the bridge between Kronos and Kairos stable.  And so will the others who come after is.”

“Others, Sprout?”

“We’re the first, Jobey.  We won’t be the last.  There will be many other mortal lovers who share their Immortal’s Quickenings after this.  And one by one, they will all find their way here.  To this place.  Where the First and Second and Third Choruses all connect.  Where the sum total of Immortal memory can be experienced as more than just dry fact.”   Milly looked around at the familiar landscape of Jobey’s cyber music-room, and laughed suddenly.  “And I am so very, very glad that you were here with me.  Here, and able to create this place, and pull me into it.  I knew what was coming.  But I was still overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t really blame you for that,” Jobey said with a smile.  “Look at what you were up against.” He pulled open a door, the same one he must have pulled Milly through, showing her an incredible swirling chaos outside.  It was like being Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, floating in Uncle Henry’s cabin amidst the whirling cyclone.  But a hundred times worse. “I’m always happy to be of service, Sprout.  Mi casa es su casa, after all.  I’m glad my mental music room could give you a little stability within the storm.  But somehow, I don’t think it’s the entire solution.” He looked her over from head to toe, full of pride and love.  “I think you’re the only who has that, am I right?”

“I am,” Milly agreed.  And, sitting down on the threshold of the door with her feet dangling over the churning abyss, she began to do what she did best.  She began to make a map.

It was slow, hard, painstaking work.  But the data—the memories of every Immortal who had ever lived -- was all there, passing through her mind just for the asking; all Milly had to do was organize them.  So she set out a global representation of the earth, assigned a scale and an orientation, and got to work placing a pin upon it for each set of memories, one for each and every mortal life.  She smiled as she placed one for Sean Burns, made of shining, everlasting gold.  She smiled again as she placed one for Rebecca, carved from beautiful mother of pearl.  Darius’s (“Darius,” Joe breathed, watching over her shoulder.  “He really did make it.  He really isn’t lost after, all…”)  was cut from a pure quartz crystal. Richie’s was the shiny fillister head screw off of motorcycle carburetor…Again and again Milly dipped into the chaos and drew out a marker.  And slowly the chaos settled as the map began to fill.

More than once, as Milly reached into the maelstrom, she brushed by what could only have been Methos.  He, too, seemed to be desperately trying to find some order in the chaos, trying to organize it so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed.  Milly almost had to laugh when she saw what he was building…an archaic card catalog.  It was in chronological order, with one card for each and every Immortal life, and space for all kinds of annotations and cross-referencing.  But Methos was clearly struggling; the project was far too intricate and was taking far too long.  “You really ARE a librarian,” Milly whispered to him.  “And we will need a full card-catalog, in time. Later.  When this is all a little less new, and we have time to look deeper into each life and build those cross-references you want.  For now, though, let’s try it my way…”  And she held up the map to the chaos for him to see. 

She knew the moment he saw and understood, because he materialized in the doorway at her side.  He gave Joe a fierce kiss, then sat down and began helping Milly to place her pins.  Some…like the sapphire peg of a woman that tasted of drum beats and warm earth beneath a starry sky…Methos cradled tenderly in his palm for a moment, before placing them in the map.  Others he simply shook his head over, before putting them in their places with a sign reading “Here There Be Dragons” pinned beneath them.  Milly, who had been about to place the freezing-cold-steel pin that was Kronos, quickly followed his example.  And almost before she knew it, the map was complete; every Immortal who had ever been had found his or her place upon the globe.  “It’s beautiful,” Methos whispered, then frowned as he stared out the door, where four vague shapes could still be seen swirling around.  “But…”

“It’s Mac and Amanda,” Joe said quietly.  “Maria and Prim—I guess I mean Magdalene—too.  They all got swept along with us, and they’re still lost out there.”  He looked at Milly doubtfully.  “Milly?  What should we do?  I could bring them in here…but this is my place.  And while I don’t mind sharing it with you and Methos, I don’t really want any part of my mind to become Grand Central Station.” He shivered.  “Especially not for the likes of Magdalene.”

“Point taken,” Methos agreed.  “We really need some kind of public meeting place, especially if there are more mortal/Immortal couples on their way. Hmmm.”  He looked at Milly.  “Pix?  Do you think there’s enough magic left to build a map room?  One each us can come back to at will, without traipsing through the minds of anyone still living?”

“Truly?  In this place of magic?  I think right here, right now, anything is possible,” Milly said.  “Let’s give it a try.” 

And so they tried, and they succeeded, although Milly would never be quite sure just how.  All she knew was that, when they were done, she and Methos and Jobey were standing in what appeared to be the oval-shaped map room of a beautiful 18th century library.  The library was complete with marble floors and mahogany study tables, and the glowing globe that was the map hovered serenely in midair.  There was plenty of room for Methos’s future card catalog—empty now, but the cabinets were there, beautiful and shining and simply waiting to be filled.  And there were a great many doors, leading away from room in all directions.  “It’s beautiful,” Jobey said, looking around himself admiringly.  “But why all the doors, Sprout?”

Milly frowned.  Truthfully, she’d been wondering the same thing.  “I’m not sure, Jobey,” she answered.  “Maybe because someday there will be other planets with Immortals on them, and they will each require a map and a room of their own.  Maybe there already *are*, and we just have to find the proper door to reach them.  Or maybe…”  She smiled.  “Or maybe it’s because this map room is just one place, one location within the vast magic of Kairos.  Perhaps the other doors lead to places and things we can’t even dream of just yet.  Maybe even into Aionos itself.”

“Hmmm,” Methos said thoughtfully.  “You could well be right, Pix.  But for now… I think we’ve left your husband out in the cold for long enough.  The others, too.  Joe?  Would you like to do the honors?”

“Sure,” Joe said.  He smiled broadly and opened one of those doors, revealing once again the swirling cyclone.  He reached out and arm into the chaos, and pulled up a very startled looking Maria Navarro.  He repeated the motion two more times, pulling in an equally startled looking Amanda, and finally Duncan.  “Milly,” he said, pulling her into a ferocious embrace.  “I couldn’t find you, Milly.  I tried, but there was….there was just so *much*.  So many lives that weren’t mine…”

“Shhh, beloved.  We’re here now.  It’s all right.”

“I hope so,” he said wryly, wiping at his eyes.  “I thought I was going mad.  And then, suddenly, there was this map…”  He turned slightly away from her, eyes falling on the glowing globe in the center of the room.  “Did you do that?”

“Methos and I made it together.  It was necessary, to keep from being overwhelmed.”  Milly too, regarded the map, and all the points upon it, glittering like a billion stars.  “It’s rough, yet.  Very crude.  There’s lots more work to be done.  But for now…if you want to experience the memories of any particular Immortal, all you have to do is find his or her pin in the map.”  She took his hand and led him closer to the globe, stopping in front of a particular clear Quartz peg.  “Here.  All you have to do is touch.”

Looking quite hesitant, Duncan did so.  The peg glowed brightly as he made touch with it, a glow that softly flickered into Duncan’s hand and spread up into his face.  “Darius,” he breathed.  He stood silent for a moment, locked in silent communion, before stepping back.  “So it’s true,” he said reverently.  “None of us really are lost.  No matter what happens, no matter how or where we lose our heads, someone we’ll all end up…here?”

“It’s true,” Methos confirmed.  “We’re free, Mac.  This really is the End of Time that Kahvin foresaw. Kronos—“ A certain cold-steel peg with a flag on it flared brightly for a moment, and Methos rolled his eyes—“The world of clock time, I should have said, no longer rules us.  We no longer have to pass our experiences onto the next Immortal, lockstep, one at a time, through all the generations.  Instead, when we die, our memories will just travel the web of Kairos to come *here*.”  He looked around himself thoughtfully.  “As for the rest of us, the parts of our Quickenings that aren’t our memories…I’m not sure.  Maybe someday we’ll find the answer to where that goes, too. Behind one of those doors.”

Milly smiled, thinking of Sean and Richie, and a certain place where The Second Chorus sang in all its brilliant beauty, a place where magic and eternity met.  “Someday,” she agreed.

“Then—“ Duncan looked thunderstruck.  “Does that mean the Game is over?”

“I—“  Methos looked hesitant.  “I don’t think so, Mac.  There will always be battles that need to be fought. Immortals who need to be removed from the world for one reason or another.  I don’t think you’ll ever find yourself completely retired.”  Duncan nodded heavily.  “But—“ Methos continued, “I don’t think it will hurt to take a head now, not like it used to, at least.  We won’t be taking on the Quickenings anymore; they’ll just be passing through us, into the earth and then to *here*.  And I don’t think we’ll have to fight anywhere near as often as we were, either.  I think the great tide of Immortals whose Quickenings instinctively wanted us to take them so that they could come *here*, be a part of this moment, will slacken, now.  And the mortal Token Bearers should lose interest in manipulating us into fighting, too.  Especially once this year, the year prophesized by Kahvin, finally draws to a close…”

Maria Navarro-Tokalov spoke for the first time.  Her voice was rough with determination.  “I will see to it.”

“Yes,” Methos agreed, looking her over levelly.  “If anyone can, it would be you, I think.  Especially with Amanda to help you track down that handful of contrary souls who will inevitably flee.  No one is better at finding footprints in cyberspace than Amanda is.  You two should make a wonderful team.”  Both women flushed.  Methos looked thoughtful.  “While you’re at it, Amanda, you might see about looking over the programming and security for Chronicles, as well.  I haven’t been able to access them for quite some time, but I’m sure an overhaul is due.    Although I’m not sure we’ll really need the Watchers anymore.  Not now that we have this.” He waved a hand at the map.

“I don’t know,” Jobey said, with what Milly could only describe as a ‘cheeky’ grin.  “There are still going to be plenty of mortals who never have the ability to come here, after all.  We need to keep up the Chronicles for them.  And if Milly’s right, and there are supposed to be more groups of mortal and Immortal lovers who do come here in the future…what better way to find mortals who could qualify than through the Watchers?”  He took Methos’s hand.  “It’s what got *us* together, after all.”

Duncan snorted.  “So let me get this straight,” he said.  “You want to turn the Watchers into some kind of mortal-Immortal *dating service*?”

“Hardly that, Mr. MacLeod,” Maria said, with stately dignity.  “The Watchers—once we have recovered from this current crisis—will continue to do what we have always done: observe and record Immortal life.  As Joe pointed out, there are plenty of mortals who never will have the benefit of visiting this place.  We need to maintain a more…earthly…Chronicle, for them.  But.”  She locked eyes with Amanda.  “I think perhaps the rules against Watcher and Immortal freindship will have to be revised.”

“I think so, too,” Amanda agreed.  She smiled dazzlingly.  “Methos is right, you know.  You people really *could* use a hand with your security.  Do you think the Watchers are ready for their first completely out-of-the closet Immortal member?”

Maria did not smile.  She just continued to hold Amanda’s gaze.  “If they aren’t, we’ll make them that way,” she said.  “Together.”

To Milly’s surprise, Amanda flushed a brilliant rosy-pink.  “Well, I guess I’m just glad that the Watchers microchip their members now.  Image, little ole’ me getting a tattoo.  At my age,” she quipped, but the words lacked force, and quickly died away.  Milly saw Jobey smile broadly, and tighten his grip on Methos’s hand.  Amanda held Maria’s gaze for another moment, then cleared her throat.  “Milly?”    

“Yes, Amanda?”

“This may not be the right time.  But I want…I need…”  She took a deep breath.  “Is there a pin in that map for Nick?”

Milly nodded, understanding flooding over her.   Of course.  Nick had been killed by mortals, too.  Amanda had spent five long, horrible years thinking he’d been lost forever. “Of course,” she said, and led Amanda to the strong, lovely, absolutely straight-grained cherry wood peg that represented Nick Wolfe.  “Here he is.”

Amanda took a deep breath.  Then, gathering her courage, she reached out and touched it.  Light flared in the peg, spreading to her hand and up her arm to her heart; Milly watched as Amanda’s body slowly relaxed, her eyes alternately laughing and filling with tears.  At last, she stepped away.  “Yes,” she said, wiping her eyes.  “That’s Nick, all right.  All of him.  I was…I think I was scared it would be just facts.  Like reading a dry dull history book, all dates, with no flavor.  But it’s him.  And I could feel how much he loved me.  How much he *still* does, somehow.  I…” She trailed off, looking worried as she again locked eyes with Maria.  “I—I’m sorry—“

Maria shook her head.  “Never apologize for your past to me,” she said gently. “It’s who you are, and it’s beautiful.  Each and every part.”  And Milly, seeing Amanda’s eyes go wide, felt a small sun rise in her own heart.  No question, the two women had been thrown into the deep end of the relationship swimming pool without a paddle, and Milly had been a little worried.  But they were going to be all right…

Duncan cleared his throat.  “Milly,” he said, half hoping, half fearing.  “Is there a pin for Richie, too?” 

And Milly was about to say yes, and lead him to it, when Methos interrupted.  “Not now, Highlander,” he said gently.  “We all have plenty of lost ones we need to see, to reconnect with and remember.  I—“ He cast a yearning glance at that sapphire blue peg, then resolutely straightened his shoulders.  “But there will be time for that later.  Multiple lifetimes of it.  This place is a part of our own Kairos now, our own Quickenings; all we’ll have to do to return to it in the future is concentrate and close our eyes.  For now—“ He nodded at the still-open door.  There was nothing but a calm, starry night visible through it now, with one stormy cloud still chasing around it in circles.  “Primrose is still out there,” Methos finished quietly.  “Which means we have a decision to make.”

Jobey blinked at him.  “A decision?  What decision?”

“She killed Nick, Joe,” Duncan said, for one picking up on Methos’s thoughts with absolutely zero misunderstanding.   “And Sandra.  And countless others, too.  We could…”  He looked through the door, face utterly emotionless.  “We could just leave her.”

“Yeah,” Jobey answered.  “We *could*.  But we wouldn’t.”  He looked around at all of them, brow furrowed.  “Would we?”

Duncan didn’t answer him.  “Amanda?”

Amanda, who was still lost in gazing at Maria, broke away.  “No,” she said decidedly.  “We wouldn’t.”  And strode over to the door, reached out, and pulled Primrose in.

She landed in a spitting, snarling heap, so wild-eyed and wild-haired that Milly almost wouldn’t have recognized her.  She glared at them furiously…and then her eyes fell on the map, drawn to a single pin.  She began to walk toward it, hands outstretched. 

Milly, who had placed that pin—it was made of amethyst, which still shone beautifully, despite the many cracks and fissures running through its surface—stopped Methos when he would have intervened.  “No,” she said.  “It’s all right, I think.  It’s her Harpist.”

Methos still looked doubtful.  “Are you sure?” he asked.  “She might try to pull Harpist’s pin out, keep her all to herself.  Or damage the map in some other way…”

“I don’t think so.  Look.”

The yearning on Primrose’s face was a living thing of its own, wild and uncontrollable.  She touched the amethyst peg with shaking hand.  The same light that had been in Richie and Darius’s pegs flared and began to travel up her arm.  Primrose’s eyes went wide; she snatched her hand away, shaking her head violently.  And then promptly collapsed to the floor.

Instantly Maria and Amanda wee kneeling over her, Amanda cradling her head, Maria checking her pulse.  “Alive,” she said after a moment.  “But her heartbeat’s really weak.  I think…”

“We should get her back to the cave.  The Lady there will be able to help her, if anyone can,” Jobey finished for her. Maria nodded, looking grateful.  Jobey looked curiously at Milly.  “Er…Sprout?  Just how do we do that?  I assume that one of these doors will takes us back there, to the so called ‘real world’.  But there’s so many.  How…”

 “It’s all right, Jobey,” Milly answered.  “I have one more cartographer’s trick up my sleeve.  The greatest trick of all, you could say.  Part of us still in the world of clock time, and always will be.  This should get us back to it.”  She closed her hand, opened it again—revealing one final pin.  It was made from a brilliant, shining star ruby, and dangling from it was an arrow-shaped sign.  Methos and Joe both laughed aloud delightedly when they saw it.  They helped Milly pin it to one of the doors, and let the sign flutter freely.

 _You Are Here_ …

***

“Well,” Jobey said wryly, the tears streaming down his face neither canceling nor belying the loving good humor in his voice.  “*That* was unexpected.”

They were back in the cave room.  The seven of them…Milly, Jobey, Methos, Duncan, Amanda, Maria and Magdalene…. were all lying on the floor.  They were all dusty, feeling quite tumbled and bruised from both the effects of the earthquake and their long sojourn in the realm of Kairos.  But they were all essentially unhurt, though Primrose was still unconscious.  She was lying with one hand within the sacred pool.  The water was twinkling serenely around her fingers.  “All right,” said Methos dryly, picking himself up the cave floor.  “Correct me if I’m wrong….but…”  He rubbed the back of his head comically.  “I believe that I now have access to all the memories of every Immortal that ever lived and died, whether I took their heads personally, or not.  If I close my eyes, the map room is still there, all the various pins on the map twinkling out at me like stars.  Joe?  Do you see it too?”

Joe nodded.  “I do.”

“Pixie?”

“I do, too,” Milly answered, although that wasn’t true, not quite.  When she closed her eyes, she saw two doors.  One had a plaque that read “Map Room” in clear bronze type. At its side was another door, the twin of the Map Room door in everything but feeling.  Its plaque was still blank, but somehow Milly knew…just knew…that it would lead to the place where she’d met Richie and Sean, the place where Kairos and Aionos met.  The place where dead Immortals still lived as something far more than memory.  It seemed to be locked for now, though, and Milly was content to let it remain so.  For the present, at least.  After all, there was more than enough going on to keep her occupied.  “Duncan?  Do you see it, too?” 

“Yes, Milly.”

“Amanda?” 

“I see it,” answered the Immortal thief, holding her eyes closed.  “Strange, to have something behind my eyelids besides the odd swirls of darkness and light I’ve been looking at for the last four millennia.  But I’ll get used to it eventually, I think.”  She opened her eyes, and her smile faltered.  “Maria?”

The dark-haired doctor closed her eyes tightly for a second, then opened them and shook her head.  “No,” she said.  “All I have is darkness.  But that’s okay.”  She gave Amanda a tiny smile.  “I think the Kairos of this place—and all of you—was enough to carry me to the Map Room this time, but I don’t think I can make it back there on my own just yet.  I rather think that sharing an actual Immortal’s Quickening may be, ah, something of a prerequisite.  And—“ She faltered, but picked up again resolutely.  “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.  Not quite.”

Amanda’s ears went pink.  “Well, put like that, I’m not sure that I am, either,” she said.  “At the very least, we should go out for coffee first.”  Maria smiled weakly.  Amanda reached out a hand to her, apparently acting on pure instinct alone.  “It’s okay,” she said softly.  “We have time.”

*Lots and lots of time, my daughters,* chimed the Lady, laughing softly.  *More than either of you can possibly imagine, here and now.*

All of them startled.  “Lady!”  Methos exclaimed, walking toward her.  “You—you’re still here.”

*Well, where else would I be?* the Lady chided him gently.  *The gateway Sandra and Cassie opened with their love has become a part of my waters.  I am to be its guardian, from now on.* 

“Then…” Methos looked ever so slightly worried.  “Are you a Healer no more?”

A ring of merry laughter rang out.  *Foolish beloved,* said the Lady, sending a wave of warm water to caress Methos’s toes.  *One cannot stop being what one is.  I will always be your healing Lady.  You may always come and bathe in my waters, when either your body or your spirit is too hurt to bear.  But old as I am, it does not mean I can’t have more than one job, does it not?*  She gave a little ripple of self-satisfaction.  *The Bridge to the End of Time begins with me, and I shall be its guardian.  All those who wish to cross it in the future—and there will be others, more with each generation, as Milly foresaw—all of them will have to come through me.*

Methos nodded.  His gaze fell across Primrose, still lying still with her outstretched hand within the spring.  “And her?”

*I have done my best,* the Lady answered.  *She, too, needs time—and the only way to get that is to live through it.  She will wake, eventually, after she has left this place and is fully immersed within Kronos once again.  But there is only one thing that can really heal her.*

“Yes,” Milly spoke up softly, thinking of the dark amethyst pin.  “Harpist.”  She looked at the Lady curiously.  “Lady?  Harpist was never able to share her Quickening with Magdalene, and when Magdalene touched Harpist’s peg on the map, she pulled away.  Will she ever be able to find her way back to the Map Room to try again?  Be able to experience her memories, know how much she was truly loved?”

*One day,* the Lady answered solemnly.  *Right now Magdalene is fighting both the world and us, rejecting every touch of Kairos in her blood.  But someday, I believe, she will understand.  She may even find another Immortal to love.  And the two of them will find their way here together.*  She twinkled merrily.  *Although rest assured, when that day comes, I will guard her most carefully indeed.  She’s exactly the kind of naughty child who would start re-arranging pins just for fun.*

Milly was startled into a chuckle, recognizing the truth of that.  But Methos was staring at the Lady curiously.  “*Can* you really do that, Lady?  Keep watch over both the portal and the map?  Keep them safe from those who would harm them, for one reason or another?”

*I certainly can,* the Lady answered.  *I am more myself than ever, beloved, stronger than I have ever been.  And it only fit, is it not?  That after centuries of you guarding and protecting me, I finally begin to look after YOU?*  Methos made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle.  The Lady seemed to sober.  *And guarded you will need to be,* she said seriously.  *For there is plenty of work to be done, my beloveds.  Milly’s map was only a beginning.  The memories of all will need to be indexed, moment by moment, experience by experience, which is work only you can do, Librarian.  Oh, Milly will help as she can, and of course one day Maria will join you too.  As will a great many others, as the centuries flow by and more and more mortal/Immortal couples find each other, and then find their way to me.  But for now, you and Milly are it.  And so you are going to be kept very busy for a time.*

Jobey looked alarmed.  “Then…will Methos have to stay here?  With you?”

*No, Musician.* The Lady seemed very amused.  *We are connected now, in a way that goes beyond both space and time.  I can look after you wherever you go.  You may return to your island…and should return there, I think.  Oh, the world will be a safer place for both of you now than it has been for many a year—your beloved was right, those of your kind whose Quickenings were drawn by instinct to become a part of this moment will no longer seek you for battle.  And the mortal Token Bearers, both white and Red, will gradually lose interest too.  Still.  That will take a little time…and besides, you will need someplace safe to be, while you recover from the last few decades and get used to being who you now are.  A place to rest and recuperate and be with your love.  The island is ideal.* A shimmer of rose-colored lights danced teasingly over the Lady’s surface.  *I hear the sunsets are especially nice, there.*

Both Methos and Jobey looked extremely embarrassed.  So, Milly was both amused and chagrined to note, did she and Duncan.  But while Amanda may have noted it and wondered, Maria’s mind had already leapt ahead.  “Lady?” 

*Yes, beloved?*

“Lady—“  Maria’s mouth worked helplessly.  “What’s it all *for*?  I mean—I understand that all the world’s Immortal Quickenings are safe now, all in one place.  And I understand that very special Immortals and mortals too can access their memories, and that there will be more of us with every generation.  Which is going to change the world; that much knowledge can’t help but do so.  What I don’t understand is…how?  Why?  What, exactly, is going to happen next?”  She spread her arms.  “I feel like we are standing at the dawning of something huge—some great and glorious change.  For the entire world.  Maybe for the entire universe.  But for the life of me, I can’t tell what it is.  Can you?”

The Lady flickered dazzlingly.  Her voice was a voice of pure joy.  *Something NEW*.

And, though one or the other of them would ask her that question many times in the future, again and again during all the years to come, that was all the Lady would ever say. For centuries…

***

Methos and Jobey did indeed return home to their island.  Amanda and Maria were invited, but decided not to come.  Maria had too much to do, overseeing the now scattered and sadly broken Watchers, and she felt it was her duty to look after Magdalene as well.  Amanda had helped Maria find a private hospital where the former Doctor Bard could be cared for—Magdalene would be safe there, at least until she eventually left her coma.  After that, Maria still wasn’t entirely sure what she’d do with her.  But she knew one thing.

Amanda would be at her side, helping her to decide.

The brand new Dr. and Mr. MacLeod made their union official in Darius’s old church, where Jobey cried freely, Methos cried just as much but pretended he wasn’t, and Maria and Amanda both cried and threw rice.  Afterwards, Milly and Duncan returned to Jobey and Methos’s island, too  Partly this was because they both badly wanted to be there when Methos and Jobey held Cassie and Sandra’s very private memorial service, sprinkling their mingled ashes into the sea.  But more of it was just for themselves.  They, too, needed a safe place to be for a while, to rest and recuperate and love, just as the Lady had said.  It wasn’t easy, suddenly having thousands upon thousands of Immortal lifetimes available to her, every time she closed her eyes.  Milly found herself very grateful to have the island as a retreat while she got used to it all.  And even more grateful to have her family nearby, all experiencing the same things.

They all helped each other.  They spent a lot of time together in the Map Room, trying to figure out how it all worked—in particular, in trying to figure out how to access one particular memory in an Immortal’s life without triggering a cascade of all the others, which was overwhelming, to say the least.  They got better at it with practice…Duncan’s Presence helped especially, as his old shields were still in place, even though they’d been badly battered.  But even when one of them goofed, the others were there, ready to pull them back to the real world and remind them who they were…and more importantly, who they weren’t.  And Milly suspected that they would need this service less and less, the more practice they got.

Still, some things kept leaking through. Milly’s dreams were now full of strange people and strange places she’d never seen with her own eyes.  Some of those dreams belonged to Duncan, of course, just as some of hers now belonged to him—Milly had been forced to laugh the first time he’d woken up, highly puzzled by a dream of being an 8-year-old-girl attending a state Geography bee.  But others were mysteries.   Milly was eventually forced to conclude that that certain Map Room memories just “seeped” into hers from time to time, whether she wanted them to or not. 

One day, for instance, Milly found herself in Methos and Joe’s kitchen after a particularly vivid dream, boiling water to sterilize a bunch of spoons, measuring equipment, and the largest ceramic crock she could find.  Milly allowed the leftover water to cool and mixed it with a few simple ingredients, pausing to frown at the scent of the yeast, and to nod thoughtfully over the rich, pungent flavor of the Barbadian honey.  She filled the crock, leaving plenty of room for air, covered it, and placed the whole kit and caboodle in the now completely unused laundry room, where she promptly forgot about the whole thing.  About a month later, though, she felt a little niggling tickle at the back of her brain. Milly fetched the crock and brought it into the kitchen, where she uncapped it and smelled.  The fragrance was both delicious and oddly familiar, and Milly was still sitting there staring into the crock when Duncan walked in.  “What’s this?” he asked with a little smile. 

“I’m not sure,” Milly admitted.  “I just woke up one day last month knowing that I needed to make it.  But I have absolutely no idea just what ‘it’ is supposed to be.”  She brandished a spoon at him.  “Taste it for me?  It won’t kill you if it’s poisonous.  Well, not permanently.”

Under other circumstances, Duncan might very well have protested.  But over the last few weeks he’d gotten used to his mortal housemates suddenly ‘just waking up’ with strange new thoughts and skills.  Milly had once woken up reciting what Duncan, smirking, had identified as very erotic love poem in Japanese, though she didn’t recognize one word. And Jobey had woken up one day with an incredible urge to make a scarf, which he now miraculously knew how to knit.  (Duncan, it turned out, was a very good knitter as well, thanks to the number of years he’d spent making his own socks.  Their convivial nights in the library were now often filled with sounds of needles clacking as the two men discussed techniques.  Life after the End of Time was certainly an odd and unusual thing.)   

So it was only with curiosity, not reluctance or trepidation, that Duncan bent over the spoon and took a sip.  Milly honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d spat it back out again, or at the very least made a sour face.  What she wasn’t expecting was for Duncan to close his eyes and suddenly sway, clutching onto the countertop for support.  “What is it?” she said quickly.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Duncan assured her, although Milly wasn’t sure she believed him—her beloved was already backing out of the kitchen.  “Don’t touch a thing until I get back.  I have to get Methos.” 

“Methos?”  Milly repeated.  “Duncan, what is it?  What did I—“ 

But her husband was already gone, moving at a run, and Milly knew there was no way she could catch him.  She was still sniffing and staring at the crock apprehensively when Duncan came back with Methos, a very curious Jobey tagging along.  Methos sniffed, did a double take, and sniffed again, leaning into the crock with the whole of his generous nose.  Then he got down a glass.  Slowly, reverently, he ladled out a glassful of the frothing brown liquid and brought it to his lips.  After a long moment, during which Duncan danced around like an impatient three-year-old waiting for a cookie, Methos put down the glass and nodded.  “You’re right, Duncan,” he said.  “That’s exactly what this is.”

“What *what* is?” Jobey asked, clearly as baffled as Milly.  “Methos, what’s going on?”

“Taste, Joe.”

Methos filled a second glass and held it out to his love.  Obediently, Jobey tasted…and looked equally thunderstruck.  “Nooooo,” he said.  “It can’t be.”

“Can’t be what?”  Milly asked.

“It’s Darius’s honey mead,” Joe answered wonderingly.  “His secret recipe, the one he took thousands of years to perfect.  I’ve never tasted it in real life before—I’ve only ever had it in Methos’s dreams.  But I’d know it anywhere, just the same.”  He looked at Methos.  “You thought the recipe was lost forever.  When Darius lost his head.”

“It appears that nothing really is lost anymore, Joe,” Methos answered with a choke in his voice.  “Not even *this*.”

And there were tears and drunken revelry long into the night.

***

A few days later, after Paulo the Pilot had unloaded a full crate of local Barbadian honey—it appeared that Methos never wanted to be without the ingredients to make Darius’s mead again—Paulo shyly asked Milly to accompany him to his plane for a private talk.  Milly was startled, and also apprehensive.  Was Paulo finally going to confess his love for Methos?  Maybe even ask her for tips on how to impress him? Oh, dear… 

But when they got to the airstrip, Paulo just held out his arm.  When Milly still didn’t understand, he gently picked up her hand and ran her fingers over his inner wrist.  Milly felt something small and hard, like a tiny grain of rice, implanted right below the skin.  Even so, it took her a moment to really understand what he was showing her.  “What on—oh.  *Oh*,” she said.  “You’re a Watcher, Paulo?”

“Yes, Doctor MacLeod.”   Paulo shrugged as shyly as an adolescent boy, all elbows and angles and long shifting limbs.  “But never one of the Token Bearers.  Never.   You have to believe me.  I always remembered my Oath.”

 “But how?  Didn’t pretty much every Watcher end up having to pick a side?” 

Paulo smiled his beautiful sunny island smile.  “We never took the Token War as seriously here as they did in Europe,” he said.  “There’s never even been a Watcher headquarters in Barbados, Dr. MacLeod—just a few families handing down the secret and keeping the Chronicles through the generations.  I took the Oath when I was fifteen, mostly so I could keep the Chronicles of our family’s Immortal if something ever happened to me Dad—“

“You have a family Immortal, Paulo?”

“Yeah,” he said shyly. “We’ve been Watching her since 1753.  You’d like her, she’s a fine old lady, been a healer and a wise woman for centuries.  A few years back she went to school to become a fancy lawyer, even though she doesn’t exactly look like a college kid. She was over seventy before she died her first death…Well, anyway.”  Paulo looked exceedingly embarrassed.  “When I first saw the Eldest, I recognized him at once.  We’re kind of out of the way here, but me and my Dad get all the Watcher bulletins just the same.  So I knew right from the start that Aaron was that really old Immortal they were all so mad to find.  But I saw the way he was with Joel, and I…I guess I figured that if the two of them wanted to spend Joel’s last few years on an island all by themselves, it was no one’s business but their own.  When I told my Dad, he agreed.  Said that every Watcher in Europe and North America might be going crazy and forgetting what ‘observe and record’ was supposed to mean, but our family would not, and that was final.  He told me that I should just keep my own private journal.  And that maybe someday, a few hundred years from now when this whole crazy thing blew over, my journal could become part of the Chronicles for real.  So that’s what I’ve been doing, Dr. MacLeod—writing down our conversations and even what Joel and Aaron ordered for groceries and such.  I figure that someday, when it’s safe again, someone will be interested.” Paulo bent his head and hunched his shoulders, clearly waiting for judgement.

Milly touched Paulo gently on the arm.  “So you’ve been protecting us all along,” she said feelingly, even though a part of her was wondering just what future generations of Watchers would make of Methos’s weekly orders of beer.  “And we’ve had an entire family of allies we never even knew about.  Thank you, Paulo.”  He nodded, both embarrassed and pleased.  “Why are you telling me this now?” Milly asked.

“Because I’ve wanted to tell the Eldest the truth about me all along,” he said bluntly.  “And now that Dr. Navarro-Tokalov is in charge and the death penalty for Watcher/Immortal friendships has been removed, it seems like a good a time.  But I couldn’t…that is, I didn’t know how…”  He took a deep breath and blurted out the next sentence.  “Would you tell him for me?”

Milly resisted the urge to laugh.  Paulo looked as nervous as a high school kid asking his best friend to find out if his crush ‘liked’ him back.  “I could,” Milly said.  “But I think it would be better if you just told him yourself, Paulo.  The Eldest has had one or two Watcher friends before, you know.  He’ll understand.  Trust me.”  Paulo nodded solemnly, still seeming uncertain.  Milly suddenly eyed him curiously.  “Hmmm,” she said.  “You come from a multi-generational Watcher family, Paulo.  And you are clearly capable of feeling great love.  I wonder…”

“Wonder what, Dr. MacLeod?”

She grinned at him.  “I’m wondering just how many male Immortals out there are handsome, ethical, and currently single,” she said.  “Amanda or Maria might know; I’ll have to e-mail them right away.  In the meantime…” She wrapped her hand around his elbow, smiling impishly.  “Tell your Auntie Milly everything you’ve ever wanted in a romantic partner, young man.  The Chronicles are vast, after all.  We probably won’t be able to find everything you’re looking for, but we might be able to come close…”

***

Methos was alone in the library, wondering just when Darius had first added true cinnamon his mead recipe, and also how on earth he’d managed to *keep* using it during World War Two—black market?  Or had he kept a secret stash?—when Duncan MacLeod walked in.  “Methos?”

“Yes, Mac?”

“I visited Cassandra’s memories this morning.  In the Map Room.”  Duncan heard Methos’s sharply in-drawn breath, and misinterpreted it entirely.  “Don’t worry.  I had Milly with me, ready to pull me out, just in case it got to be too much.  But I was fine.  And I—I saw—“  He stopped.

Methos forced himself to speak calmly.  “Yes, Highlander?  What did you see?” he asked, bracing himself for the answer.  Torture, rape, the whole vast list of horrendous deeds he’d committed as a Horseman…Methos waited for Duncan to tell him that he’d seen them all.  No, even worse: had experienced them just as Cassandra had, the way one tended to, within the Room.  And was now taking Milly to the furthest corner of the world ASAP as a result.  

But Duncan surprised him.  “I saw the way she thought about you, these last few decades,” he said solemnly.  “And I saw how she forgave you, Methos.  She really, truly, did.  She eventually came to love you, too, in her own strange, completely unique, Cassandra-ish way.  And then I saw what she thought of you and Milly, and I knew I had to find you…”  He shook his head.  “I owe you an apology, Methos.  A big one.”

Methos’s eyebrows arched sky high.  This was not what he’d expected, not by a long shot.  “For what, Highlander?”

“For what I said a few months ago, when we were talking in your dojo.  About Milly not being your child.”

“Yes?”

“I was wrong, Methos.  I really was.  When I looked at the three of you the way Cassandra did, I…I finally saw it so clear. ”  There was a faint mist of tears on the Highlander’s face.  “Milly really is your daughter.  Yours and Joe’s, I mean.  She’s the perfect blend of the two of you: Joe’s heart, and your mind.  It was beautiful…”

Methos stared at him incredulously for a moment.  Then he reached out and pulled his son-in-law in for a ferocious hug.

***

A few days after that, Joe walked into Methos’s office to find his beloved standing with his arms crossed, staring pensively out the window into the sea.  “Hey,” Joe said quietly.  “You didn’t come down for breakfast this morning.  I thought I’d check on you, make sure nothing was wrong…” He trailed off as Methos turned to face him.  “What is it?”

“Don’t look so worried, Joe.  It’s nothing, really.”  Methos waved an unconvincing hand at the sea.  “It’s just…Mac said something, a few days ago now, that made me wonder about Cassandra’s memories.  I’ve been avoiding her pin in the Map Room thus far, for obvious reasons. I decided today was finally the time seek them out, that’s all.”

Joe nodded in understanding.  “And?”

“And—“ Methos took a deep breath.  “She did forgive me.  She really, truly did. But that’s not what’s getting me all teary-eyed now.”  He swallowed hard.   “You know how you always felt so bad about missing Milly’s graduations?  Her high school one, and all the rest?”

“Yes…?”

“You didn’t.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“Sandra and Cassie were there, Joe.  At each and every one, junior high right on up through Milly’s PhD.  The two of them made a point to fly to the States every time Milly finished a school or a degree, and they always sat in the very front row during the ceremony.  It…it’s better than having a home movie, Joe.  We can share them, experience them like we really were there, the next time we go to the Map Room together.”  He wiped tears from his eyes, looking at Joe hollowly.  “She really did know, Joe.  Cassie, I mean.  She knew exactly how all this was going to play out.  Her death, the Map Room, everything.  And she made those trips for us, just so we’d have those memories now.  I—“  He stopped, unable to say a single word more.

Joe cradled him close.

***

But the biggest surprise of all came the day that Milly and Duncan left the island for their long-overdue honeymoon, amidst lots of hugs and tears and multiple heartfelt promises to visit again soon.  They’d never be truly separated, not really, since they could always just close their eyes and meet in the Map Room…but it was time for the kids to finally leave the nest, to get started on making a life of their own.  Paulo the Pilot (and Methos still had to marvel over that little development…Watcher Paulo?  There was a Watcher in the world who had recognized Methos and still chose to let him be, simply because he approved of the way Methos treated his husband?  They really were living in an age of miracles, after all…) flew the happy couple away one morning in his seaplane. 

Once he had, the island suddenly seemed a very large and barren place.  Only the knowledge that Maria and Amanda were finally taking some well-deserved vacation and would be flying in the next week made it bearable at all.  Methos hugged Joe sadly before departing to the dining room to clean up from Milly and Duncan’s bon voyage celebration.  And Joe went up to their bedroom, ostensibly to nap. 

Methos—who suspected that his husband didn’t need to nap at all, but simply wanted to have a good cry in private—let him go without comment, and performed several other mindless, meaningless chores just so Joe could have plenty of time to himself.  When two hours had come and gone, though, Methos decided it was long past time to check in.  He climbed the stairs to their suite, ready to turn around immediately if he heard or saw anything that suggested Joe still wanted to be alone.

But Joe wasn’t in the bedroom.  He was in their bathroom, sitting in front of one of the sinks, staring into the big mirror hanging over it.  And his expression wasn’t weepy or mournful at all, but consternated.  Extremely so.  Methos touched his shoulder, concerned.  “Joe?”

“It’s true,” Joe said tiredly.  “I didn’t want to believe it, but…look.”  He ran his hand over his highly receded hairline, pulling up a handful of sparse hair and showing it to Methos.  Methos frowned.  Then he jumped, frowned again, and looked closer.  “Yeah,” Joe said, reading in Methos’s face when he finally got it.  “Dark hair.  I’m starting to go…brunette.”  Joe dropped his hands to his side.  “I think my bald spot’s getting smaller, too, and some of the wrinkles under my eyes seem to smoothing themselves out.  Not to mention that I’m walking more easily, with a lot less pain in my hips. And the last time I played my guitar? It was a hell of a lot easier for my arthritic old hands to hit major F than it used to be.”  Joe stared at Methos’s reflection worriedly in the glass.  “Methos, what the hell?  I *can’t* be becoming Immortal.  You’d have told me if I suddenly developed a Presence.  And when I mashed my finger in the closet door last week, it sure as hell didn’t heal at once…I still have the bruise.  See?”  He held up his hand.  “So what *is* happening to me?”

“I don’t know, Joe,” Methos answered, a choke in his voice.  “Something…something new.”  He sat down next to his beloved, shaking his head.  “But if it helps, I don’t think it’s just you.  I caught the Pixie staring at herself in one of the mirrors in the front hall before she left, raking her hands through the same spot in her hair over and over again.  Duncan was with her, so I didn’t interrupt, and of course I can’t say for sure until I ask her.  But I’d be willing to bet that the missing-gray-hair-itis is catching.”

“Sprout, too?”  Joe shook his head wonderingly.  “Methos, what is going on?” 

“I honestly have no idea, Joe,” Methos answered solemnly.  “But neither you nor Milly is exactly ‘pure mortal’ anymore.  Both of you carry some portion of an Immortal’s Quickening now.  Not to mention that you both have access to the memories of every Immortal that ever lived.  Maybe…maybe your bodies are somehow remembering how to be young.”  He spoke the next words hesitantly.  “Is that…is that a bad thing?”

“No.”  Joe reached out to take his hand.  “God, no.  If it lets me spend so much as one extra second on this earth with you, it’s not a bad thing at all.”  He looked back helplessly into the mirror.  “But I’ve *earned* this face, Methos.  I’ve built it, wrinkle by wrinkle, line by line.  I’ve gotten used to it, and I know that you have, too.  Besides, you’re the one who told me—and have given me multiple very believable physical demonstrations to back it up--that you thought my wrinkles were sexy.  Will you…”  His voice shook suddenly.  “Will you…”   

And suddenly Methos’s voice was shaking, too.  “Don’t worry, Joe,” he said.  “I’ll still love you when you’re young and brunette.”

They pitched forward into each other’s arms, laughing and crying together.

***

And far away, in a completely different hemisphere of the beautiful world, The Lady reached out through the earth’s shining web of Kairos, caressing each of Her beloved Six with a tendril of love and warmth.  First, She lightly brushed Her Cartographer and Her Warrior, blessing them with a little extra sweetness as they watched a truly awesome sunset from their solarplane.  Next, She sent a subtle a wave of reassurance to Her Librarian and Her Musician, as they frantically made love within their island home.  And finally, She sent a bolt of sympathy and courage to Her Thief and Her Historian, shyly smiling at each other over pizza in Bordeaux.  Tonight would not be the night when they finally joined their essences and truly became one.  But it would not be long…

Six who were Three who had always been but One.  The Lady rippled with satisfaction.  Their love flowed so brightly.  The Lady could see it spilling from them, overflowing into the earth, creating new lines and pockets of Kairos wherever they went.  Someday all those lines would form an entirely new web, a foundation for…what?  Not even the Lady knew.  But She wrapped them up securely in a layer of her own magic anyway, holding them close, keeping them safe.  *Something new,* She whispered.  *Something new.*

And it was so.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Notes and thanks:
> 
> Chapter titles are taken from (and make up) the final stanza of Rumi’s wonderful mystic poem, “Don’t Go Back to Sleep.”  You may read the whole text [here](http://apoemaday.tumblr.com/post/56153678473/dont-go-back-to-sleep).
> 
> The original Immortal character introduced as “Fate Worse Than Death Fed” in Chapter Seven is the creation of the brilliant Celebrithil, who very graciously and generously allowed me to borrow him.  I wouldn’t believe everything Methos says about him if I were you, though. 
> 
> The I-never-thought-of-that-but-oh-my-gosh-it-makes-so-much-sense concept of Methos regarding beer as comfort food comes from Lady Silver’s brilliant Methos/Richie short story, "[Old and Familiar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/627324)".  Similarly, I would never have been introduced to REM’s song “The End of the World as We Know It” if it hadn’t been for her gen Methos and Joe story "[And Hell Follows With Him](http://archiveofourown.org/works/621853)."  Go read them, people!
> 
> “Too much sand in too many inappropriate places…” is a line stolen from a so-far-as-I-know still unpublished story by the great Dr. Moni.
> 
> The realization that Darius’s honey mead recipe wasn’t really lost after all came from a beautiful comment left on my LJ by SilverKat.
> 
> The joke about the CIA was taken from Neil Gaiman's novel "American Gods."
> 
> The head of Plex Earth was named after two of my mom’s most beloved college professors—men who both died decades before I ever had the chance to meet them, but who were a powerful enough influence in her life that I grew up knowing both their names.  They shaped her; she shaped me; and so it goes.  You never know just how far your words and acts of kindness will reach into the future.
> 
> “Tritaxmatazine” is an homage to the Star Trek universe’s wonderfully convenient medical substance “Tricorderzine”.  The ‘taxmat” part is also a reference to the tax materials I must study every year in order to keep up my state tax preparer’s license.  Trust me, nothing is better than an IRS publication for putting you to sleep. ;)
> 
> Sylvan—the mahogany trees on the island’s patch of holy ground are for you.
> 
> Liz-Lady—the first “Adam and Joe” novel would never have been written at all, let alone have grown into a series, were it not for you.  Thank you, dear!!!
> 
>  **My biggest thanks of all** , from the true bottom of my heart and the furthest reaches of my soul, is given to everyone who has come this far on the Adam & Joe journey—especially to all of you who commented, kuddo’d, and otherwise reached out to me over the years.  I tried really hard to give both you and the boys the ending you deserve. :)


End file.
